The Consolation of Philosophy | Page 4

233
III. TRUTH'S PARADOXES 241
IV. A PSYCHOLOGICAL FALLACY 250
V. THE UPWARD LOOK 255
BOOK I.
THE SORROWS OF BOETHIUS.
SUMMARY.
Boethius' complaint (Song I.).--CH. I. Philosophy appears to Boethius,
drives away the Muses of Poetry, and herself laments (Song II.) the
disordered condition of his mind.--CH. II. Boethius is speechless with
amazement. Philosophy wipes away the tears that have clouded his
eyesight.--CH. III. Boethius recognises his mistress Philosophy. To his
wondering inquiries she explains her presence, and recalls to his mind
the persecutions to which Philosophy has oftentimes from of old been
subjected by an ignorant world. CH. IV. Philosophy bids Boethius
declare his griefs. He relates the story of his unjust accusation and ruin.
He concludes with a prayer (Song V.) that the moral disorder in human
affairs may be set right.--CH. V. Philosophy admits the justice of
Boethius' self-vindication, but grieves rather for the unhappy change in
his mind. She will first tranquillize his spirit by soothing remedies.--CH.
VI. Philosophy tests Boethius' mental state by certain questions, and
discovers three chief causes of his soul's sickness: (1) He has forgotten
his own true nature; (2) he knows not the end towards which the whole
universe tends; (3) he knows not the means by which the world is
governed.
BOOK I.

SONG I.
BOETHIUS' COMPLAINT.
Who wrought my studious numbers
Smoothly once in happier days,

Now perforce in tears and sadness
Learn a mournful strain to raise.

Lo, the Muses, grief-dishevelled,
Guide my pen and voice my woe;

Down their cheeks unfeigned the tear drops
To my sad
complainings flow!
These alone in danger's hour
Faithful found,
have dared attend
On the footsteps of the exile
To his lonely
journey's end.
These that were the pride and pleasure
Of my youth
and high estate
Still remain the only solace
Of the old man's
mournful fate.
Old? Ah yes; swift, ere I knew it,
By these sorrows
on me pressed
Age hath come; lo, Grief hath bid me
Wear the garb
that fits her best.
O'er my head untimely sprinkled
These white
hairs my woes proclaim,
And the skin hangs loose and shrivelled

On this sorrow-shrunken frame.
Blest is death that intervenes not
In
the sweet, sweet years of peace,
But unto the broken-hearted,
When
they call him, brings release!
Yet Death passes by the wretched,

Shuts his ear and slumbers deep;
Will not heed the cry of anguish,

Will not close the eyes that weep.
For, while yet inconstant Fortune

Poured her gifts and all was bright,
Death's dark hour had all but
whelmed me
In the gloom of endless night.
Now, because
misfortune's shadow
Hath o'erclouded that false face,
Cruel Life
still halts and lingers,
Though I loathe his weary race.
Friends, why
did ye once so lightly
Vaunt me happy among men?

Surely he who
so hath fallen
Was not firmly founded then.
I.
While I was thus mutely pondering within myself, and recording my
sorrowful complainings with my pen, it seemed to me that there
appeared above my head a woman of a countenance exceeding
venerable. Her eyes were bright as fire, and of a more than human
keenness; her complexion was lively, her vigour showed no trace of

enfeeblement; and yet her years were right full, and she plainly seemed
not of our age and time. Her stature was difficult to judge. At one
moment it exceeded not the common height, at another her forehead
seemed to strike the sky; and whenever she raised her head higher, she
began to pierce within the very heavens, and to baffle the eyes of them
that looked upon her. Her garments were of an imperishable fabric,
wrought with the finest threads and of the most delicate workmanship;
and these, as her own lips afterwards assured me, she had herself
woven with her own hands. The beauty of this vesture had been
somewhat tarnished by age and neglect, and wore that dingy look
which marble contracts from exposure. On the lower-most edge was
inwoven the Greek letter [Greek: P], on the topmost the letter [Greek:
Th],[A] and between the two were to be seen steps, like a staircase,
from the lower to the upper letter. This robe, moreover, had been torn
by the hands of violent persons, who had each snatched away what he
could clutch.[B] Her right hand held a note-book; in her left she bore a
staff. And when she saw the Muses of Poesie standing by my bedside,
dictating the words of my lamentations, she was