On the Fifth of November

At the Age of Seventeen

Hardly had the pious James come down from the northto assume the rule of the people of Albion who had sprungfrom ancient Trojan blood; hardly had the treatyjoined together the English and Scottish crowns and scepters,with the king, in peace and wealth and happiness, taking his placeon the new throne, secure from foes, open or secret,when the terrible tyrant, the father of Furies, the wandering exilefrom Olympus’ majestic heights who rules Acheron’s floodchanced to rove about the immense orb of the earthto tally up his faithful slaves and companions in evilwho, when they are buried, will take their place in his realm.Hovering here in mid-air, he rouses terrible tempestsand scatters among like-minded friends the seeds of hatred.He appeals to the pride of nations that think they cannot be conqueredto wage war against others that labor under the samedangerous misconception. Where the olive of peace thrives,he creates confusion that leads to tumult and mortal combat.Whoever devotes himself to decency and to virtuehe beguiles with deceptions, corrupting their temptingly innocent hearts.He knows how to lay his snares and spread his treacherous netsthat entangle unwary men whom he delights to captureand whom he follows as silent as any Caspian tigerrelentlessly stalking its trembling prey through pathless wasteson a moonless night ill-lit by the furtive twinkle of stars.With such destructive intent does the underworld god Summanus,girt with whirling smoke and flickers of blue-white flame,appear to overwhelm the cities and towns of men.He sees the famous beetling cliffs with their skirts of foam,and the land the sea-god loves enough so that his sonwho ruled here bestowed his name upon it--Albion.Summanus saw the fertile and peaceful fields that Cereshad blessed and, what was worse, a people who gave their thanksand praise to the one true god. This provoked him sorelyto sighs and groans with eruptions of Tartarean flames and brimstone,sulfurous and lurid, like those of the monster Typhoeuswhom Jove consigned beneath Mount Aetna that belches forthfrom its noisome mouth expressions of burning hatred and rage.His eyes are aglow with sinister flashes and from his jawsthere comes the sounds of his gnashing teeth that sound like weapons,lance meeting iron armor or sword smashing on shield.“This,” he said, “is as dreadful as anything I have yet seenas I have wandered the world. This nation alone rejects meand spurns my powerful yoke and all my machinations.If my efforts can accomplish what I now have in mind,they shall not long defy me without paying the costthat I shall impose on them who will know my vengeance.”Thus he spoke and on pitch-black wings he soared through the air,and wherever he flew there were mighty headwinds that came before him,accumulations of thick black clouds and flashes of lightning.He passed over the peaks of the snowy Alps and reachedItaly where, on the left, the stormy Apennines lie,the land of the ancient Sabines, and opposite, on the right,Tuscany, notorious for sorcerers and magi.He passed the Tiber that flows through Rome to kiss the seaand descended to Romulus’ city where, in the fading twilight,he beheld the man who wears the triple-crown on a littercarried about in streets on the shoulders of burly menand bearing their bread-made gods. Before him were kings on their kneesand an endless line of mendicant friars carrying tapers.All of them blind fools, thus dragging out their livesin Cimmerian darkness! They entered their temple, bright with torches,for it was St. Peter’s Day. Thunders of songs and chantsrose to resound in the domes in a Bacchic enthusiasmthat once used to fill the air of Boeotian Mount Aracynthuswhile the River Asopus trembled and from far away Mount Cithaeronreturned an echoing answer from one of its hollow cliffs.When the solemn pomp of these rites came at last to an end,it was time for Night to depart from Erebus’ embraceand urge her steeds headlong across the bowl of the sky—Typhlos (blind), fierce Melanchaetes (having black hair),Siope (silence), and long-maned Phryx (one who shudders).The subduer of kings, meanwhile, the proud pontifical heirto the throne where fiery Phlegethon flows had entered his chamber,for he does not pass his nights without some concubine,but sleep had barely closed his eyes when the lord of the shadesappeared in a false form and stood close to his bedside.His temples were silvered and gray and a white beard hung to his breast;a garment of ashen hue swept the ground where he walked;a hood covered his head and concealed his face in its shadow;and, lest he give himself away, his loins were boundwith a cord of hemp. Slowly in sandaled feet he approached…so had Francis walked alone in the desert sandsamong the haunts of the wild beasts, a sinner who broughtto the dumb creatures pious words of the world’s salvationand thus he had managed to gentle the wolves and the Libyan lions.In this disguise the crafty deceiver addressed the recumbent pope,speaking these inveigling words from his hateful lips:“Are you asleep, my son? Does your fatigue overpoweryour body’s limbs? You forget your faith as well as your flock!Even now, as I speak, there are, far to the north,barbarian people defying your throne and your triple crown!The quivering Britons scorn the laws of the holy father.Bestir yourself! Arise from your sloth! Remember howthe emperor adores you! Think of the keys of heavenyou have in your hands that will make those gates fly open!Break their shameless pride and rebellious spirits and showhow sacrilege fares in the world when you have pronounced your curses.Avenge the defeat of the Spanish fleet where their flags driftedslowly down to the tranquil bed of the cruel sea.Think of the saints and martyrs that Amazon virgin queensent to hang on the gallows or to lay their heads on the block.If you lie there in your soft bed pillows and fail to actand refuse to encounter the foe while his strength every day increases,the enemy soon will fill the sea with his ships and soldiersand plant his haughty standard atop the Aventine hill.He will smash the holy relics and fling them into the flamesand tread with his infidel feet upon the nape of your neck,even if kings have been delighted to kiss your feet.But do not attempt any direct attack which could fail;rather make use of fraud and guile, bearing in mindthat such actions are right and proper for heretics.Their king has summoned to council the kingdom’s dignitariesthe hereditary peers from everywhere in the land,and the white-haired sages as well in their fine robes of state.All these you can blast to ashes with a little well-placed powderunderneath the buildings in which they are all convened.But before you take such action, you must give fair warningto whatever souls have remained steadfast in their faith.These will surely obey your instructions and keep awayand therefore be spared from any harm in the great explosion.Then, when the nation is seized with panic and in confusion,let the ruthless Gauls fall upon them or elsethe Iberian hordes that are eager to invade and annex their land.Thus will the spirit return of the age of the faithful Queen Maryand you will regain your rule over the valiant English.Fear naught; dread naught; but trust in all the gods and saintsthat you parade through the streets on your many festival days!”So the fiend spoke and then, putting aside his costume,disappeared forthwith to the joyless realm of Lethe.The doorman of the celestial hall had driven awaysleep and the nocturnal shapes of pleasant dreamswhen rosy-fingered dawn emerged from the eastern gatesto tinge the earth again with a fresh and gentle light,while weeping dewy tears down on the mountain topsfor the death of her son Memnon before the walls at Troy.There is a place obscured by the darkness of constant nightwhere in the vast foundations of ruined buildings lurkcruel Murder and double-tongued Treachery, the twinsDiscord brought forth. Here in their dismal denamong the broken rocks are unburied bones of menand rotting corpses pierced and gashed by cold steel.Here sits Guile with his furtive eyes and also Striveand Calumny with those fangs protruding from his jaw.And Fury, and Death in a thousand different forms, and Fearalso dwell here, and Horror flying through murky air,and bodily shapes cry out to punctuate the silence.The very earth is ashamed, moist as it is with blood.There, deep in a cave, Murder and Treason sitwhere no one dares approach through the hall of jagged rocks,and there the guilty pair cower, but even so,Babylon’s high priest can command them as he pleases,for they have been loyal and faithful servants to him for years.“On the very western edge of the world,” he tells the two,“surrounded by ocean there lives a people whom I detest,smug on their little island, aloof from the rest of the world.Go there at once, I command you, and find among the faithfulassociates in my plot and aids in its execution.Then, with infernal power of powder, let them be blownsky high, the king, the nobles, and the entire accurséd race.”With these words, he fell silent, and the ruthless twins at oncehurried to carry out his orders. The Lord of Heavenwho turns the sphere of the heavens and sends down lightning boltsfrom his citadel on high, looked down with a sad smileat the efforts of this perverse crown that would be in vainas long as he himself was defending his people’s cause.Somewhere equidistant from Europe and Asia, there standshigh on a mountain the lofty Tower of Fame, where the Titangoddess dwells. A thousand windows and doors gape wideand from spacious courtyards within a murmuring crowd mills,buzzing like so many flies where the milk pails are set out.At the highest point sits Fame and she perks her numberless earswith which she gathers whispers of rumors from everywhere.Not even you, Argus, the unreliable guardof Io, rolled so many eyes in your savage face.Fame’s eyes never get drowsy but she gazes far and wideover the landscape below, even into the darkness,places in which the rays of the sun don’t ever shine.Whatever she sees or hears, her babbling tongue pours out,utterly disregarding the truth of what she says,exaggerating or minimizing as it may please her.Fame, nevertheless, deserves praise in our songfor her one good deed, than which there could not be a better.I am proud to honor her here, and I do not apologizefor going on at some length—for she was the savior of England.Capricious goddess, we offer our deepest gratitude.God, who tempers the motion of stars and planets, hurledhis thunderbolt and, while the earth still trembled, said:“Are you silent now, O Fame? Or are you unawareof the evil band of Papists conspiring now against meand against my people, the Britons? Have you not heard the newsof the terrible murder that they are planning against King James?”She heard and accepted these commands of the Thunderer Godand even though she was normally speedy, now she hastenedto put on her buzzing wings and clothe her body in plumage.In her right hand she held a shining brazen trumpetas she beat the air with her wings and outstripped all the clouds,and even the winds which she left behind, and the sun’s horses.Through all the English cities and towns she spread her tales--uncertain, even contradictory, but disturbing,and growing ever louder—of the men who were plotting togetherthis treacherous act. She spoke of the deed itself but includedthe names of those involved as well as the place and timethat they had settled upon. Young men and pretty maidens,and worn old men and women were seized with great alarmat the thought of such a disaster that struck deep in their hearts.Meanwhile, the Heavenly Father on high was moved to pityfor these, his people, and he thwarted the Papists’ plans:the conspirators were captured and dragged away to justice.Honors and incense were offered as signs of gratitudefor the nation’s having been spared. At all the crossroads, firesof celebration burned, and young men and women danced,and no day more than the Fifth of November sees such rejoicing.___

John Milton (1608-1674) was a graduate of Christ College, Cambridge. On the Fifth of November was origionally written in Latin; the above is a new translation. Milton also wrote poems in English: “Lycidas,” “Paradise Lost,” “Sampson Agonistes,” and others.

David R. Slavitt's recent books include George Sanders, Zsa Zsa, and Me, "a kind of memoir of my flicker-picker" days at Newsweek," and a translation of Orlando Furioso by Ludovico Ariosto. His translations of The Latin Elegies of Giovanni Boccaccio and Dante's La Vita Nuova will appear later this year.