Poems appear throughout the Prospero’s Daughter series. Some appear in the original form. Others have been altered to fit the purposes of the story…or, if you believe Miranda’s version, these are the originals, unadulterated by the Orbis Suleimani.
My favoriate portrait of Miranda from The Tempest
Mephisto’s Song
The song Miranda as she’s walking down the streets of Chicago is straight from The Tempest.
The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
The gunner and his mate
Lov’d Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery,
But none of us car’d for Kate;
For she has a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She lov’d not the savor of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch:
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
Orpheus’s Poems
I had not realized until I started research the ancient Eleusinian Mysteries, while researching Prospero Lost, that the Greek hero Orpheus was thought to bea real historical figure. Poetry still survives that is attributed to him.
Ode To Mnenosene by Orpheus – as edited by the Orbis Suleimani (the “real” historical version) Translated by Thomas Taylor in 1792
The consort I invoke of Jove divine,
Source of the holy, sweetly-speaking Nine;
Free from th’ oblivion of the fallen mind,
By whom the soul with intellect is join’d:
Reason’s increase, and thought to thee belong,
All-powerful, pleasant, vigilant, and strong:
‘Tis thine, to waken from lethargic rest
All thoughts deposited within the breast;
And nought neglecting, vigorous to excite
The mental eye from dark oblivion’s night.
Come, blessed power, thy mystic’s mem’ry wake
To holy rites, and Lethe’s fetters break.
Ode To Mnenosene by Orpheus – as translated by the Dread Magician Prospero
I invoke the consort of Divine Zeus,
Mother of the nine sweet-speaking Muses;
Free from the oblivion of the fallen mind,
By whom the soul is joined and reason increased.
All thought belongs to thee,
All-powerful, pleasant, vigilant goddess,
‘Tis thine to waken from lethargic rest
All thoughts residing within us, neglecting none.
From the dark oblivion of night, you enlighten the inner eye.
Come, Blessed Power, wake thy mystic’s memory of the holy rites.
And break the chains of the River Lethe
Lullaby Lucciola, Lucciola (Firefly, Firefly)
Lady Emma Hamilton as Miranda
painted by George Romney
The Italian lullaby sung by Miranda over the body of Caucus remains unchanged.
Original Italian
Lucciola lucciola, gialla gialla
metti la briglia alla cavalla
che la vuole il figlio del re
lucciola lucciola vieni con me.
English translation by Ernestine Shargool. It can be found at Mama Lisa’s World
Firefly, firefly, yellow and bright
Bridle the filly under your light,
The son of the king is ready to ride,
Firefly, firefly, fly by my side.
Dante’s Inferno
Dante’s version of the words above the door to Hell, or at least what the Orbis Suleimani allowed to be published. (as translated by Revern H. F. Cary in 1814)
Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric mov’d:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon ye who enter here.
What the Prosperos saw:
Through me the entrance unto Doom
Through me the gateway to the Lost
Through me the entrance to Everlasting Pain.
Beyond me, Divine power stops, Wisdom fails, and Love ceases.
Justice has weighed: the doom is clear:
All hope renounce, ye lost, who enter here.
Onward Christian Soldiers
A shortened version of the hymn Onward Christian Soldiers, written by Sabine Baring-Gould, in 1865
Onward, Christian soldiers,
marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus
going on before.
Christ, the royal Master,
leads against the foe;
Forward into battle see
His banners go!
Onward, Christian soldiers,
marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus
going on before.
At the sign of triumph
Satan’s host doth flee;
On then, Christian soldiers,
on to victory!
Hell’s foundations quiver
at the shout of praise;
Brothers lift your voices,
loud your anthems raise.
Like a mighty army
moves the church of God;
Brothers, we are treading
where the saints have trod.
We are not divided,
all one body we,
One in hope and
doctrine, one in charity.
Crowns and thrones may perish,
kingdoms rise and wane,
But the church of Jesus
constant will remain.
Gates of hell can never
gainst that church prevail;
We have Christ’s own promise,
and that cannot fail.
Mephisto’s Version, not all of which appears in the novel.
Onward Christian Soldiers
Marching as to war
With a slice of pizza
Going on before.”
“Like a mighty army
Moves the Church of God
Brothers we are treading
On some gooey sod.
We are not divided
All one body, we
This does cause some problems
When we need to pee.
Crowns and thrones may perish,
kingdoms rise and wane,
but the Family Prospero
constant will remain.
Gates of Hell can never
Against Prosperos prevail;
we have Theophrastus,
and that cannot fail.
Lament for the Makers
Throughout the book, Miranda’s brother Erasmus quotes from the poem Lament for the Makers, by William Dunbar. Here is the poem in its entirely.
I that in health was and gladness
Am troubled now with great sickness
And feebled with infirmity;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Our pleasance here is all vain glory
This false world is but transitory
The flesh is brittle, the Feind is sly;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The state of man does change and vary
Now sound, now sick, now blithe, now sorry,
Now dansand merry, now like to die;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
No state in earth here standes sicker
As with the wind waves they wicker
Waves this world’s vanity;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Unto the death go all Estates
Princes, Prelates, and Potestates
Both rich and poor of all degree;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takes the knights in to field
Enarmed under helm and shield
Victor he is at all melee;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That strange unmerciful tyrant
Takes on the mother’s breast suckand
The babe full of benignity;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takes the champion in the stour
The captain closed in the tower
The lady in bower full of beauty;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He spares no lord for his puissance
No clerk for his intelligence
His awful stroke may no man flee;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Art-magicians and astrologes,
Rhetors, logicians, and theologes,
Them helpes no conclusions sly;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In medicine the most practicions,
Leeches, surgeons, and physicians
Themselves from death may not supply;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
I see that makers among the live
Play here their pageant then go to grave
Spared is not their faculty;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has done pitously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makers flower,
The monk of Bury, and Gower, all three;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
(there follow 10 stanzas naming many forgotten poets)
In Dumfermline he has done roune
With Master Robert Henryson
Sir John the Ross embraced has he;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Since he has all my brethren ta’en
He will not long me leave alone
On force I must his next pray be;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Since for the dead remede is none
Best is that we for death dispone
After our death that live may we;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.