[408] Seized. [409] Wicked. [410] Curse. [411] Cause. [412] Thrive. [413] Prateth. [414] Certainly. TRUTH BALLADE OF GOOD COUNSEL Flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness[415]; Suffice thine owen thing, though it be small; For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness,[416] Press hath envy, and weal blent[417] overall[418]; Savour no more than thee behove shall; Rule well thyself, that other folk canst rede[419]; And truthe shall deliver, it is no drede.[420] Tempest thee not all crooked to redress, In trust of her that turneth as a ball: For great rest stands in little business; Beware also to spurn against an awl; Strive not as doth the crocke with the wall; Daunte thyself that dauntest otheres deed, And truthe shall deliver, it is no drede.[420] That[421] thee is sent receive in buxomness,[422] The wrestling for this world asketh a fall: Here is none home, here nis[423] but wilderness: Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beast, out of thy stall! Know thy country, look up, thank God of all; Hold the high way, and let thy ghost[424] thee lead, And truthe shall deliver, it is no drede.[420] ENVOY Therfore, thou vache,[425] leave thine old wretchedness Unto the worlde; leave now to be thrall; Cry him mercy, that of his high goodness Made thee of nought, and in especial Draw unto him, and pray in general For thee, and eke for other, heavenly meed, And truthe shall deliver, it is no drede.[420] [415] Truth. [416] Unsteadiness, unstability. [417] Blinds. [418] Everywhere. [419] Advise. [420] Doubt. [421] What. [422] Submissiveness. [423] Is not. [424] Spirit. [425] Beast. ANDRE CHENIER (1762-1794) BY KATHARINE HILLARD [Illustration: ANDRE CHENIER] There are some reputations which seem to depend upon their environment. Certain names are surrounded by a halo of romance, through which all outlines are enlarged and heightened in effect until it becomes difficult to discern their true proportions through the golden mist. When we think of Andre Chenier we see a youthful figure among a crowd of fellow-prisoners, the light of genius in his eyes, the dark shadow of impending death already enveloping him and climbing slowly upwards, as the mist of the Highland second-sight rises higher as death draws near. The pathetic character of his fate touches the heart, and disposes us to judge the poems he wrote with that bias of personal interest which is so apt to warp the verdict of the critical mind. Had Andre Chenier died comfortably in his bed at a good old age, would Sainte-Beuve have been so apt to call him "our greatest classic poet since Racine and Boileau"? unless indeed he had vainly racked his memory to think of any other.