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Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843

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A GROUP IN TARTARUS

 
Hark, as hoarse murmurs of a gathering sea—
As brooks that howling through black gorges go,
Groans sullen, hollow, and eternally,
One wailing Woe!
Sharp Anguish shrinks the shadows there;
And blasphemous Despair
Yells its wild curse from jaws that never close;
And ghastly eyes for ever
Stare on the bridge of the relentless River,
Or watch the mournful wave as year on year it flows,
And ask each other, with parch'd lips that writhe
Into a whisper, "When the end shall be!"
The end?—Lo, broken in Time's hand the scythe,
And round and round revolves Eternity!
 

ELYSIUM

 
Past the despairing wail—
And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale
Melt every care away!
Delight, that breathes and moves for ever,
Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
Elysian life survey!
There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
His youngest west-winds blithely leads
The ever-blooming May.
Thorough gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours,
In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
And Truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day,
And joy to-day and joy to-morrow,
But wafts the airy soul aloft;
The very name is lost to Sorrow,
And Pain is Rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.
Here the Pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb,
And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim,
The load he shall bear never more;
Here the Mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams,
Lull'd with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams,
The fields, when the harvest is o'er.
Here, He, whose ears drank in the battle-roar,
Whose banners stream'd upon the startled wind
A thunder-storm,—before whose thunder tread
The mountains trembled,—in soft sleep reclined,
By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed
In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore,
Hears the stern clangour of wild spears no more!
Here the true Spouse the lost-beloved regains,
And on the enamell'd couch of summer-plains
Mingles sweet kisses with the west-wind's breath.
Here, crown'd at last—Love never knows decay,
Living through ages its one BRIDAL DAY,
Safe from the stroke of Death!
 

COUNT EBERHARD, THE GRUMBLER, OF WURTEMBERG

 
Ha, ha I take heed—ha, ha! take heed,¹⁰
Ye knaves both South and North!
For many a man both bold in deed
And wise in peace, the land to lead,
Old Swabia has brought forth.
 
 
Proud boasts your Edward and your Charles,
Your Ludwig, Frederick—are!
Yet Eberhard's worth, ye bragging carles!
Your Ludwig, Frederick, Edward, Charles—
A thunder-storm in war.
 
 
And Ulrick, too, his noble son,
Ha, ha! his might ye know;
Old Eberhard's boast, his noble son,
Not he the boy, ye rogues, to run,
How stout soe'er the foe!
 
 
The Reutling lads with envy saw
Our glories, day by day;
The Reutling lads shall give the law—
The Reutling lads the sword shall draw—
O Lord—how hot were they!
 
 
Out Ulrick went and beat them not—
To Eberhard back he came—
A lowering look young Ulrick got—
Poor lad, his eyes with tears were hot—
He hung his head for shame.
 
 
"Ho—ho"—thought he—"ye rogues beware,
Nor you nor I forget—
For by my father's beard I swear
Your blood shall wash the blot I bear,
And Ulrick pay you yet!"
 
 
Soon came the hour! with steeds and men
The battle-field was gay;
Steel closed in steel at Duffingen—
And joyous was our stripling then,
And joyous the hurra!
 
 
"The battle lost" our battle-cry;
The foe once more advances:
As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky,
We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by,
Amidst a night of lances!
 
 
On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps—
Bright shines his hero-glaive—
Her chase before him Fury keeps,
Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps,
And round him—is the Grave!
 
 
Woe—woe! it gleams—the sabre-blow—
Swift-sheering down it sped—
Around, brave hearts the buckler throw—
Alas! our boast in dust is low!
Count Eberhard's boy is dead!
 
 
Grief checks the rushing Victor-van—
Fierce eyes strange moisture know—
On rides old Eberhard, stern and wan,
"My son is like another man—
March, children, on the Foe!"
 
 
And fiery lances whirr'd around,
Revenge, at least, undying—
Above the blood-red clay we bound—
Hurrah! the burghers break their ground,
Through vale and woodland flying!
 
 
Back to the camp, behold us throng,
Flags stream, and bugles play—
Woman and child with choral song,
And men, with dance and wine, prolong
The warrior's holyday.
 
 
And our old Count—and what doth he?
Before him lies his son,
Within his lone tent, lonelily,
The old man sits with eyes that see
Through one dim tear—his son!
 
 
So heart and soul, a loyal band,
Count Eberhard's band, we are!
His front the tower that guards the land,
A thunderbolt his red right hand—
His eye a guiding star!
 
 
Then take ye heed—Aha! take heed,
Ye knaves both South and North!
For many a man, both bold in deed
And wise in peace, the land to lead,
Old Swabia has brought forth!
 

TO A MORALIST

 
Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?
Is love but the folly you say?
Benumb'd with the Winter, and freezing,
You scold at the revels of May.
 
 
For you once a nymph had her charms,
And oh! when the waltz you were wreathing,
All Olympus embraced in your arms—
All its nectar in Julia's breathing.
 
 
If Jove at that moment had hurl'd
The earth in some other rotation,
Along with your Julia whirl'd,
You had felt not the shock of creation.
 
 
Learn this—that Philosophy beats
Sure time with the pulse—quick or slow
As the blood from the heyday retreats,—
But it cannot make gods of us—No!
 
 
It is well, icy Reason should thaw
In the warm blood of Mirth now and then,
The Gods for themselves have a law
Which they never intended for men.
 
 
The spirit is bound by the ties
Of its jailer, the Flesh—if I can
Not reach, as an angel, the skies,
Let me feel, on the earth, as a Man.
 

ROUSSEAU. ¹¹

 
Oh, Monument of Shame to this our time,
Dishonouring record to thy Mother Clime!
Hail, Grave of Rousseau! Here thy sorrows cease.
Freedom and Peace from earth and earthly strife!
Vainly, sad seeker, didst thou search through life
To find—(found now)—the Freedom and the Peace.
When will the old wounds scar? In the dark age
Perish'd the wise. Light came; how fares the sage?
There's no abatement of the bigot's rage.
Still as the wise man bled, he bleeds again.
Sophists prepared for Socrates the bowl—
And Christians drove the steel through Rousseau's soul—
Rousseau who strove to render Christians—men.
 

FORTUNE AND WISDOM

 
In a quarrel with her lover
To Wisdom Fortune flew;
"I'll all my hoards discover—
Be but my friend—to you.
Like a mother I presented
To one each fairest gift,
Who still is discontented,
And murmurs at my thrift.
Come, let's be friends. What say you?
Give up that weary plough,
My treasures shall repay you,
For both I have enow!"
"Nay, see thy Friend betake him
To death from grief for thee—
He dies if thou forsake him—
Thy gifts are nought to me!"
 

THE INFANTICIDE

 
1.
Hark where the bells toll, chiming, dull and steady,
The clock's slow hand hath reach'd the appointed time.
Well, be it so—prepare! my soul is ready,
Companions of the grave—the rest for crime!
Now take, O world! my last farewell—receiving
My parting kisses—in these tears they dwell!
Sweet are thy poisons while we taste believing,
Now we are quits—heart-poisoner, fare-thee-well!
2.
Farewell, ye suns that once to joy invited,
Changed for the mould beneath the funeral shade
Farewell, farewell, thou rosy Time delighted,
Luring to soft desire the careless maid.
Pale gossamers of gold, farewell, sweet-dreaming
Fancies—the children that an Eden bore!
Blossoms that died while dawn itself was gleaming,
Opening in happy sunlight never more.
3.
Swanlike the robe which Innocence bestowing,
Deck'd with the virgin favours, rosy fair,
In the gay time when many a young rose glowing,
Blush'd through the loose train of the amber hair.
Woe, woe! as white the robe that decks me now—
The shroud-like robe Hell's destined victim wears;
Still shall the fillet bind this burning brow—
That sable braid the Doomsman's hand prepares!
4.
Weep, ye who never fell—for whom, unerring,
The soul's white lilies keep their virgin hue,
Ye who when thoughts so danger-sweet are stirring,
Take the stern strength that Nature gives the few
Woe, for too human was this fond heart's feeling—
Feeling!--my sin's avenger¹² doom'd to be;
Woe—for the false man's arm around me stealing,
Stole the lull'd Virtue, charm'd to sleep, from me.
5.
Ah, he perhaps shall, round another sighing,
(Forgot the serpents stinging at my breast,)
Gaily, when I in the dumb grave am lying,
Pour the warm wish, or speed the wanton jest,
Or play, perchance, with his new maiden's tresses,
Answer the kiss her lip enamour'd brings,
When the dread block the head he cradled presses,
And high the blood his kiss once fever'd springs.
6.
Thee, Francis, Francis,¹³ league on league, shall follow
The death-dirge of the Lucy once so dear;
From yonder steeple, dismal, dull, and hollow,
Shall knell the warning horror on thy ear.
On thy fresh leman's lips when Love is dawning,
And the lisp'd music glides from that sweet well—
Lo, in that breast a red wound shall be yawning,
And, in the midst of rapture, warn of hell!
7.
Betrayer, what! thy soul relentless closing
To grief—the woman-shame no art can heal—
To that small life beneath my heart reposing!
Man, man, the wild beast for its young can feel!
Proud flew the sails—receding from the land,
I watch'd them waning from the wistful eye,
Round the gay maids on Seine's voluptuous strand,
Breathes the false incense of his fatal sigh.
8.
And there the Babe! there, on the mother's bosom,
Lull'd in its sweet and golden rest it lay,
Fresh in life's morning as a rosy blossom,
It smiled, poor harmless one, my tears away.
Deathlike yet lovely, every feature speaking
In such dear calm and beauty to my sadness,
And cradled still the mother's heart, in breaking,
The soft'ning love and the despairing madness.
9.
"Woman, where is my father?"—freezing through me,
Lisp'd the mute Innocence with thunder-sound;
"Woman, where is thy husband?"—called unto me,
In every look, word, whisper, busying round!
For thee, poor child, there is no father's kiss.
He fondleth other children on his knee.
How thou wilt curse our momentary bliss,
When Bastard on thy name shall branded be!
10.
Thy mother—oh, a hell her heart concealeth,
Lone-sitting, lone in social Nature's All!
Thirsting for that glad fount thy love revealeth,
While still thy look the glad fount turns to gall.
In every infant cry my soul is heark'ning,
The haunting happiness for ever o'er,
And all the bitterness of death is dark'ning
The heavenly looks that smiled mine eyes before.
11.
Hell, if my sight those looks a moment misses—
Hell, when my sight upon those looks is turn'd—
The avenging furies madden in thy kisses,
That slept in his what time my lips they burn'd.
Out from their graves his oaths spoke back in thunder!
The perjury stalk'd like murder in the sun—
For ever—God!--sense, reason, soul, sunk under—
The deed was done!
12.
Francis, O Francis! league on league, shall chase thee
The shadows hurrying grimly on thy flight—
Still with their icy arms they shall embrace thee,
And mutter thunder in thy dream's delight!
Down from the soft stars, in their tranquil glory,
Shall look thy dead child with a ghastly stare;
That shape shall haunt thee in its cerements gory,
And scourge thee back from heaven—its home is there!
13.
Lifeless—how lifeless!--see, oh see, before me
It lies cold—stiff!--O God!--and with that blood
I feel, as swoops the dizzy darkness o'er me,
Mine own life mingled—ebbing in the flood—
Hark, at the door they knock—more loud within me—
More awful still—its sound the dread heart gave!
Gladly I welcome the cold arms that win me—
Fire, quench thy tortures in the icy grave!
14.
Francis—a God that pardons dwells in heaven—
Francis, the sinner—yes—she pardons thee—
So let my wrongs unto the earth be given:
Flame seize the wood!--it burns—it kindles—see!
There—there his letters cast—behold are ashes—
His vows—the conquering fire consumes them here:
His kisses—see—see all—all are only ashes—
All, all—the all that once on earth were dear!
15.
Trust not the roses which your youth enjoyeth,
Sisters, to man's faith, changeful as the moon!
Beauty to me brought guilt—its bloom destroyeth:
Lo, in the judgment court I curse the boon:
Tears in the headsman's gaze—what tears?—tis spoken!
Quick, bind mine eyes—all soon shall be forgot—
Doomsman—the lily hast thou never broken?
Pale doomsman—tremble not!
 

[The poem we have just concluded was greatly admired at the time of its first publication, and it so far excels in art most of the earlier efforts by the author, that it attains one of the highest secrets in true pathos. It produces interest for the criminal while creating terror for the crime. This, indeed, is a triumph in art never achieved but by the highest genius. The inferior writer, when venturing upon the grandest stage of passion, (which unquestionably exists in the delineation of great guilt as of heroic virtue,) falls into the error either of gilding the crime in order to produce sympathy for the criminal, or, in the spirit of a spurious morality, of involving both crime and criminal in a common odium. It is to discrimination between the doer and the deed, that we owe the sublimest revelations of the human heart: in this discrimination lies the key to the emotions produced by the Œdipus and Macbeth. In the brief poem before us a whole drama is comprehended. Marvellous is the completeness of the pictures it presents—its mastery over emotions the most opposite—its fidelity to nature in its exposition of the disordered and despairing mind in which tenderness becomes cruelty, and remorse for error tortures itself into scarce conscious crime.

 

 

But the art employed, though admirable of its kind, still falls short of the perfection which, in his later works, Schiller aspired to achieve, viz. the point at which Pain ceases. The tears which Tragic Pathos, when purest and most elevated, calls forth, ought not to be tears of pain. In the ideal world, as Schiller has inculcated, even sorrow should have its charm—all that harrows, all that revolts, belongs but to that inferior school in which Schiller's fiery youth formed itself for nobler grades—the school "of Storm and Pressure"—(Stürm und Dräng—as the Germans have expressively described it.) If the reader will compare Schiller's poem of the 'Infanticide,' with the passages which represent a similar crime in the Medea, (and the author of 'Wallenstein' deserves comparison even with Euripides,) he will see the distinction between the art that seeks an elevated emotion, and the art which is satisfied with creating an intense one. In Euripides, the detail—the reality—all that can degrade terror into pain—are loftily dismissed. The Titan grandeur of the Sorceress removes us from too close an approach to the crime of the unnatural Mother—the emotion of pity changes into awe—just at the pitch before the coarse sympathy of actual pain can be effected. And it is the avoidance of reality—it is the all-purifying Presence of the Ideal, which make the vast distinction in our emotions between following, with shocked and displeasing pity, the crushed, broken-hearted, mortal criminal to the scaffold, and gazing—with an awe which has pleasure of its own—upon the Mighty Murderess—soaring out of the reach of Humanity, upon her Dragon Car!]