To the Honoured, Noble Translator of Rabelais.
Rabelais, whose wit prodigiously was made
All men, professions, actions to invade
With so much furious vigour, as if it
Had lived o’er each of them, and each had quit
Yet with such happy sleight and careless skill
As, like the serpent, doth with laughter kill
So that although his noble leaves appear
Antic and Gottish, and dull souls forbear
To turn them o’er, lest they should only find
Nothing but savage monsters of a mind
No shapen beauteous thoughts; yet when the wise
Seriously strip him of his wild disguise
Melt down his dross, refine his massy ore
And polish that which seem’d rough-cast before
Search his deep sense, unveil his hidden mirth
And make that fiery which before seem’d earth
Conquering those things of highest consequence
What’s difficult of language or of sense
He will appear some noble table writ
In the old Egyptian hieroglyphic wit
Where, though you monsters and grotescoes see
You meet all mysteries of philosophy.
For he was wise and sovereignly bred
To know what mankind is, how ’t may be led
He stoop’d unto them, like that wise man, who
Rid on a stick, when ‘s children would do so.
For we are easy sullen things, and must
Be laugh’d aright, and cheated into trust
Whilst a black piece of phlegm, that lays about
Dull menaces, and terrifies the rout
And cajoles it, with all its peevish strength
Piteously stretch’d and botch’d up into length
Whilst the tired rabble sleepily obey
Such opiate talk, and snore away the day
By all his noise as much their minds relieves
As caterwauling of wild cats frights thieves.
But Rabelais was another thing, a man
Made up of all that art and nature can
Form from a fiery genius,— he was one
Whose soul so universally was thrown
Through all the arts of life, who understood
Each stratagem by which we stray from good
So that he best might solid virtue teach
As some ‘gainst sins of their own bosoms preach
He from wise choice did the true means prefer
In fool’s coat acting th’ philosopher.
Thus hoary Aesop’s beasts did mildly tame
Fierce man, and moralize him into shame
Thus brave romances, while they seem to lay
Great trains of lust, platonic love display
Thus would old Sparta, if a seldom chance
Show’d a drunk slave, teach children temperance
Thus did the later poets nobly bring
The scene to height, making the fool the king.
And, noble sir, you vigorously have trod
In this hard path, unknown, un-understood
By its own countrymen, ’tis you appear
Our full enjoyment which was our despair
Scattering his mists, cheering his cynic frowns
For radiant brightness now dark Rabelais crowns
Leaving your brave heroic cares, which must
Make better mankind and embalm your dust
So undeceiving us, that now we see
All wit in Gascon and in Cromarty
Besides that Rabelais is convey’d to us
And that our Scotland is not barbarous.
J. De la Salle.