SULLY,
July 3, 1717
TO THEE who dost in lyric lays
Rival the famed Anacreon’s praise,
Who dost voluptuous pleasure preach,
And by your life free living teach;
Thou blessed with such a tuneful mind,
That when to bed by gout confined,
Thy lute there yields as pleasing sounds
As at a feast where mirth abounds —
I write to you from Sully, where Chapelle lived, that is, got drunk for two years together. I wish he had left something of his poetical talent in this castle; it would be very convenient for those who undertake to write to you. But as we are told that he bequeathed it entirely to you, I was obliged to have recourse to magic, of which you have frequently made mention.
Then searching all the castle round,
Soon as the darkest tower I found,
I called upon gay Chapelle’s sprite
From realms where reigns eternal night.
To the infernal gods I made
No offering when I called the shade,
Like knaves who erst in servile days,
Loudly sang forth their godhead’s praise;
Or Endor’s witch whose cursed art
With terror struck Saul’s dastard heart,
Who thought the devil before his eyes
Had made the prophet’s spectre rise.
But we can raise a bard from hell,
Without a magic rite or spell:
A song alone must sure suffice,
To make a poet’s ghost arise;
I thus addressed him: “Much loved friend,
Chapelle, from Pluto’s realms ascend.
A poet wants your kindly aid,
A poet now invokes your shade.
Yet we are told, propitious gods
Have raised you to the blessed abodes,
And placed you ‘twixt the powers divine,
That over verse preside, and wine.
Therefore, kind Chapelle, much loved friend,
From realms above on earth descend.”
This prayer familiarly addressed,
Was heard with favor by the blessed,
Though it to merit had no claim,
But being offered in your name.
Before me Chapelle stood confessed,
With transport glowed my ravished breast;
In one hand he held forth the lyre,
Which charmed so oft the heavenly choir,
Gassendi’s works he with him brought,
With various, well-framed systems fraught;
He on Bachaunon leaning walked,
And with him of his journey talked;
A journey which, whilst he recited,
All those that heard him were delighted.
I asked him by what art he, during his residence in our world,
Touching his lyre could always please
With flowing numbers, and with ease,
Which nature only could impart,
Which ne’er were faulty found by art?
He said: “By love and wine alone,
To me the power of verse was known.
To witty Chaulieu for a time,
I taught the happy art to rhyme;
To you he should in turn impart
The precepts of the tuneful art.”
July 26, 1717