Page images
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

[From the Palace of Art.']

Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters, That dote upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof,

And never can be sundered without tears.
And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this
Was common clay ta'en from the common earth,
Moulded by God, and tempered with the tears
Of angels to the perfect shape of man.

[From the Miller's Daughter.']

Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine;

My other dearer life in life,

Look through my very soul with thine!
Untouched with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes for ever dwell!
They have not shed a many tears,

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.
Yet tears they shed: they had their part
Of sorrow for when time was ripe,
The still affection of the heart

Became an outward breathing type,
That into stillness passed again,

And left a want unknown before;
Although the loss that brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more,
With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be
Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort I have found in thee:
But that God bless thee, dear, who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind,
With blessings beyond hope or thought,
With blessings which no words can find!

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

MR THOMAS B. MACAULAY, who held an important office in the administration of Lord Melbourne, and is one of the most brilliant writers in the Edinburgh Review, gratified and surprised the public by a

volume of poetry in 1842. He had previously, in his young collegiate days, thrown off a few spirited ballads, (one of which, The War of the League, is here subjoined); and in all his prose works there are indications of strong poetical feeling and fancy. No man paints more clearly and vividly to the eye, or is more studious of the effects of contrast and the proper grouping of incidents. He is generally picturesque, eloquent, and impressive. His defects are a want of simplicity and tenderness, and an excessive love of what Izaak Walton called strong writing. The same characteristics pervade his recent work, the Lays of Ancient Rome. Adopting the theory of Niebuhr (now generally acquiesced in as correct), that the heroic and romantic incidents related by Livy of the early history of Rome, are founded merely on ancient ballads and legends, he selects four of these incidents as themes for his verse. Identifying himself with the ple beians and tribunes, he makes them chant the martial stories of Horatius Cocles, the battle of the Lake Regillus, the death of Virginia, and the prophecy of Capys. The style is homely, abrupt, and energetic, carrying us along like the exciting narra tives of Scott, and presenting brief but striking pictures of local scenery and manners. The truth of these descriptions is strongly impressed upon the mind of the reader, who seems to witness the heroic scenes so clearly and energetically described. The masterly ballads of Mr Macaulay must be read continuously, to be properly appreciated; for their merit does not lie in particular passages, but in the rapid and progressive interest of the story, and the Roman spirit and bravery which animate the whole. The following are parts of the first Lay:

[The Desolation of the Cities whose Warriors have marched against Rome.]

Tall are the oaks whose acorns

Drop in dark Auser's rill;

Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
Of the Ciminian hill;

Beyond all streams, Clitumnus

Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves,

The great Volsinian mere.

But now no stroke of woodman

Is heard by Auser's rill;

No hunter tracks the stag's green path
Up the Ciminian hill;

Unwatched along Clitumnus

Grazes the milk-white steer; Unharmed the water-fowl may dip In the Volsinian mere.

The harvests of Arretium,

This year old men shall reap;
This year young boys in Umbro
Shall plunge the struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Luna,

This year the must shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing girls,
Whose sires have marched to Rome.

[Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.] Then out spake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate: To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods,

And for the tender mother

Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame?

Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon straight path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now, who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?'

Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he;
'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee.'
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he;
'I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee.'

'Horatius,' quoth the Consul,

'As thou say'st, so let it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel

Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old.

Now Roman is to Roman

More hateful than a foe,

And the tribunes beard the high,

And the fathers grind the low.

As we wax hot in faction,

In battle we wax cold;

Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old.

[The Fate of the first Three who advance against the Heroes of Rome.]

Aunus from green Tifernum,

Lord of the Hill of Vines;

And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
Sicken in Ilva's mines;

And Picus, long to Clusium,

Vassal in peace and war,

Who led to fight his Umbrian powers

From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers

O'er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
Into the stream beneath:
Herminius struck at Seius,

And clove him to the teeth;

At Picus brave Horatius

Darted one fiery thrust;

And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii

Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo,

The rover of the sea;

And Aruns of Volsinium,

Who slew the great wild boar,
The great wild boar that had his den
Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen,

And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
Along Albinia's shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns:

Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow.

'Lie there,' he cried, fell pirate!
No more, aghast and pale,

From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark
The track of thy destroying bark.
No more Campania's hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns when they spy
Thy thrice accursed sail.'

[Horatius, wounded by Astur, revenges himself.]

He reeled, and on Herminius

He leaned one breathing-space;
Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,
Sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet,
So fierce a thrust he sped,

The good sword stood a handbreath out
Behind the Tuscan's head.

And the great Lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus
A thunder-smitten oak.
Far o'er the crashing forest

The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head.

On Astur's throat Horatius

Right firmly pressed his heel,

And thrice and four times tugged amain,

Ere he wrenched out the steel.

[ocr errors][merged small]

[The Bridge falls, and Horatius is alone.]

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind;

Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;

And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome.

'Oh, Tiber, Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take thou in charge this day!'
So he spake, and speaking sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And, with his harness on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear,

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.

[How Horatius was Rewarded.]
They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen

Could plough from morn till night: And they made a molten image,

And set it up on high,

And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.

It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee:

And underneath is written,

In letters all of gold,

How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,

As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
To charge the Volscian home:
And wives still pray to Juno

For boys with hearts as bold

As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;

When the oldest cask is opened,

And the largest lamp is lit,

When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit;

When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armour,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

of war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, God save our lord the King.'

'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he

[blocks in formation]

guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of

Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath

turned his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count

is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags,

and cloven mail.

[blocks in formation]

MR BAYLY was, next to Moore, the most successful song-writer of our age. His most attractive lyrics turned on the distresses of the victims of the affections in elegant life; but his muse had also her airy and cheerful strain, and he composed a surprising number of light dramas, some of which show a likelihood of maintaining their ground on the stage. He was born in 1797, the son of an eminent and wealthy solicitor, near Bath. Destined for the church, he studied for some time at Oxford, but could not settle to so sober a profession, and ultimately came to depend chiefly on literature for support. His latter years were marked by misfortunes, under the pressure of which he addressed some beautiful verses to his wife :

Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate,
More dark that fate would prove,
My heart were truly desolate

Without thy soothing love.

But thou hast suffered for my sake,
Whilst this relief I found,
Like fearless lips that strive to take
The poison from a wound.

My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret,

To think more happy thou hadst been
If we had never met !

And has that thought been shared by thee?
Ah, no! that smiling cheek
Proves more unchanging love for me

Than laboured words could speak.

But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;
Though known in days of past delight,
We knew not half their worth.

How unlike some who have professed
So much in friendship's name,
Yet calmly pause to think how best
They may evade her claim.

But ah! from them to thee I turn, They'd make me loathe mankind, Far better lessons I may learn

From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home, I feel they cannot take: We'll pray for happier years to come,

For one another's sake.

This amiable poet died of jaundice in 1839. His songs contain the pathos of a section of our social system; but they are more calculated to attract attention by their refined and happy diction, than to melt us by their feeling. Several of them, as 'She wore a wreath of roses,' 'Oh no, we never mention her,' and 'We met 'twas in a crowd,' attained to an extraordinary popularity. Of his livelier ditties, I'd be a butterfly' was the most felicitous: it expresses the Horatian philosophy in terms exceeding even Horace in gaiety.

What though you tell me each gay little rover

Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day:

Surely 'tis better, when summer is over,

To die when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay

I'd be a butterfly, living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away! The same light-heartedness is expressed in a less familiarly known lyric.

[blocks in formation]

HARTLEY COLERIDGE, son of the great poet, pub lished in 1833 a volume of Poems, not unworthy his high descent. There are few sonnets in the language more exquisite in thought or structure than the following:

What was't awakened first the untried ear
Of that sole man who was all humankind?
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind,
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere?
The four mellifluous streams which flowed so near,
Their lulling murmurs all in one combined?
The note of bird unnamed? The startled hind
Bursting the brake-in wonder, not in fear,
Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground
Send forth mysterious melody to greet
The gracious presence of immaculate feet?
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around,
Making sweet music out of air as sweet?
Or his own voice awake him with its sound?

Sonnet on Shakspeare.

The soul of man is larger than the sky,
Deeper than ocean-or the abysmal dark
Of the unfathomed centre. Like that ark,
Which in its sacred hold uplifted high,
O'er the drowned hills, the human family,
And stock reserved of every living kind,
So, in the compass of the single mind,
The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie,
That make all worlds. Great poet, 'twas thy art
To know thyself, and in thyself to be
Whate'er Love, Hate, Ambition, Destiny,
Or the firm fatal purpose of the heart

Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the same,
Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame.

Sonnets to a Friend.

When we were idlers with the loitering rills,
The need of human love we little noted:
Our love was nature; and the peace that floated
On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,
To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:
One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,
That, wisely doting, asked not why it doted,
And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.
But now I find how dear thou wert to me;
That man is more than half of nature's treasure,
Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,
Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;
And now the streams may sing for other's pleasure,
The hills sleep on in their eternity.

In the great city we are met again,
Where many souls there are that breathe and die,
Scarce knowing more of nature's potency
Than what they learn from heat, or cold, or rain-
The sad vicissitude of weary pain:
For busy man is lord of ear and eye,

And what hath Nature but the vast void sky,
And the thronged river toiling to the main?
Oh! say not so, for she shall have her part
In every smile, in every tear that falls,
And she shall hide her in the secret heart,
Where love persuades, and sterner duty calls:
But worse it were than death, or sorrow's smart,
To live without a friend within these walls.

We parted on the mountains, as two streams
From one clear spring pursue their several ways;
And thy fleet course hath been through many a maze
In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams
To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams
Brightened the tresses that old poets praise;
Where Petrarch's patient love and artful lays,
And Ariosto's song of many themes,
Moved the soft air. But I, a lazy brook,
As close pent up within my native dell,
Have crept along from nook to shady nook,
Where flowrets blow and whispering Naiads dwell.
Yet now we meet, that parted were so wide,
O'er rough and smooth to travel side by side.

[ocr errors][merged small]

Mail of Nature's own bestowing,
With peaceful radiance mildly glowing;
Keener than the Tartar's arrow,
Sport ye in your sea so narrow.
Was the sun himself your sire!
Were ye born of vital fire?

Or of the shade of golden flowers,
Such as we fetch from eastern bowers,
To mock this murky clime of ours?
Upwards, downwards, now ye glance,
Weaving many a mazy dance;
Seeming still to grow in size,
When ye would elude our eyes.
Pretty creatures! we might deem
Ye were happy as ye seem,
As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe,
As light, as loving, and as lithe,
As gladly earnest in your play,
As when ye gleamed in fair Cathay;
And yet, since on this hapless earth
There's small sincerity in mirth,
And laughter oft is but an art
To drown the outcry of the heart,
It may be, that your ceaseless gambols,
Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles,
Your restless roving round and round
The circuit of your crystal bound,
Is but the task of weary pain,
An endless labour, dull and vain;
And while your forms are gaily shining,
Your little lives are inly pining!
Nay-but still I fain would dream
That ye are happy as ye seem.

At the present time the greater poets of the age have passed either beyond the bourne of life, or into the honoured leisure befitting an advanced period of life. For twenty years, there have arisen no lights of such fresh and original lustre as Southey, Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, and Byron; nor do we readily detect in those which exist any aspirant likely to take the high ground occupied by these names. This is a phenomenon in literary history by no means unexampled; for, after the age of Pope and his associates, there likewise followed one in which no stars of primary magnitude appeared. It must, however, be admitted, that the present time, if not marked by any greatly original poet in the bloom of his reputation, is remarkable for the wide diffusion of a taste for elegant verse-writing; insomuch that the most ordinary periodical works now daily present poetry which, fifty years ago, would have formed the basis of a high reputation. It is only unfortunate of these compositions, that they are so uniform in their style of sentiment, and even in their diction, that a long series of them may be read with scarcely any impression at the end beyond that of an abundance of pleasing images and thoughts, and fine phraseology.

It has been thought proper here to advert, in brief terms, to some of the younger of our living poets, in combination with those whom worldly duties and the little encouragement given to the publication of poetry, may be supposed to have prevented from cultivating their powers to a high degree. Amongst the former may be cited JOHN STERLING, author of a volume of miscellaneous poems, published in 1839; W. MONCKTON MILNES, M.P., who has given two small volumes of poems to the world; and CHARLES MACKAY, author of The Hope of the World (1840), and The Salamandrine (1842). Mr Sterling has formed himself more peculiarly on the genius and style of Coleridge; Mr Milnes on that of Wordsworth; and Mr Mackay belongs to the school of Pope and Goldsmith. All are men of undoubted talents, from whom our poeti

« PreviousContinue »