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полная версияBlackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 57, No. 352, February 1845

Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 57, No. 352, February 1845

Полная версия

Part II

 
What sudden blaze spreads through the crimson skies,
And still in loftier volumes seems to rise?
What meteor gleams, that from the fiery north,
In savage grandeur fast are bursting forth,
And light your very walls? Tell me, ye Towers —
'Tis Smithfield revelling in his festal hours,
Fed with your captives: shrieks that wildly pierce
The roaring flames now undulating fierce,
And gasping struggles, mingled groans, proclaim
The power of torture o'er the writhing frame.
Dark are your dens, and deep your secret cells,
Whose silent gloom your tale of horrors tells.
Saw ye how Cranmer dared — yet fear'd to die,
Trembling 'mid hopes of immortality?
He stood alone; — a brighter band appears
Unaw'd by threats — impregnable to fears;
Who suffer'd glad the sacred truth to spread,
In mild obedience to its fountain-head.
And when at length our popish James would see
Cold superstition bend th' unhallow'd knee,
The mystic tapers on our altars burn,
And clouds of incense shade the fragrant urn,
Shone England's prelates faithful to their call,
In bonds of truth within thy massive wall.
See grace divine — see Heaven in mercy pour,
The balm of peace on Albion's boasted shore.
 
 
Once wrought by captive fingers on thy wall,
The hero's home and prison, grave and pall,
What dark lines meet the startled stranger's gaze,
Thoughts that ennoble — sentiments that raise
The iron'd captive from captivity,
How high above the power of tyranny! —
And ye that wander by the evening tide,
Where mountains swell or mossy streamlets glide;
That on fresh hills can hail morn's orient ray,
And chant with birds your grateful hymns to day;
Or seek at noon, beneath some pleasant shade,
To feel the sunbeams cool'd by leafy glade —
That free as air, morn, noon, and eve, can roam,
Where'er you list, and nature call your home;
Learn from a hopeless prisoner's words and fate,
"Virtue is valour — to be patient, great!"
When traced on prison walls, such words as these
Arrest the eye — appall e'en while they please —
"Ah! hapless he who cannot bear the weight,
With patient heart of a too partial fate,
For adverse times and fortunes do not kill,
But rash impatience of impending ill."
 
 
Yes, still they speak to bosoms that are free
Within the girdle of captivity;
Of spirits dauntless, who could spurn the chain
Of human punishment or mortal pain;
That e'en amid these precincts of despair,
Dared free themselves from thraldom's jealous care —
Bound but by ties of faith and virtue, be
Heirs of bright hopes and immortality.
Oh! great mind's proud inscriptions! Who shall tell
What hand engraved those lines within that cell?
What heart yet steadfast while around him stood
Phantoms of death to chill his curdling blood,
Could battle with despair on reason's throne,
And conquer where the fiend would reign alone?
Ah! who can tell what sorrows pierced his breast —
Ran through each vein, usurp'd his hours of rest?
What struggle nerved his trembling hand to trace
With moral courage words he dared to face
With acts that ask'd new efforts while he wrote
To man his soul and fix his every thought!
Tremble, thou tyrant! proud ambition, blush!
Hearts such as these thy power can never crush.
Are they forgotten? no, the rugged stone,
The lap of earth on which they rested lone;
The very implements of torture there —
The axe, the rack, the tyrant's jealous care;
Each mark that meets successive ages' eyes
Speaks, trumpet-tongued, a fame that never dies;
And tells the thoughtful stranger, while the tear
Unbidden starts, that freedom triumph'd here —
Plumed her immortal wings for nobler flight,
And bore her martyr'd brave to realms of light.
Nor false their faith, nor like the fleeting wind,
Their spirits fled! for theirs the unprison'd mind,
No tyrant-chains, no bonds of earth and time,
Could hold from truth and freedom's heights sublime —
From that bright heaven of science, whence they shed
Fresh glory o'er man's cause for which they bled.
Ask what is left? their names forgotten now?
Their birth, their fortune? not a trace to show
Where sleeps their dust? Go, seek the blest abode,
Their mind's pure joy, the bosom of their God!
Then tell if in the dull cold prison's air,
And wasted to a living shadow there,
Earth scarcely knew them! if they were alone
Where they were cast, to pine away unknown?
Friends, had they none? nor beam'd a wish to share
Love, friendship, and to breathe the common air.
Lost, lost to all! like some lone desert flower,
Felt they unseen Time's slow consuming power,
And hail'd each parting day with fond delight,
As the tired pilgrim greets the waning light?
 
 
No! glad bright spirits, guardians of the mind,
Were with them; as the demon-powers unbind
And lash their furies on the conscious breast
Of earth's fell tyrants who ne'er dream of rest.
Theirs, too, joy's harbinger, the thoughts aye fed
With brighter objects than of earth, that shed
A light within their narrow home, and gave
A triumph's lustre to the yawning grave.
And in that hour when the proud heart's o'erthrown,
And self all-powerless, self is truly known;
When pride no more could darken the free mind,
But all to God in firm faith was resign'd —
Then drank their souls the stream of love divine,
More richly flowing than the Eastern mine;
Felt heaven expanding in the heart renew'd,
And more than friends in desert solitude.
 
 
Peace to thy martyrs! thou art frowning now
With all the array of bold and martial show;
The same thy battlements with trophies dress'd,
Present defiance to the hostile breast;
Around thy walls the soldier keeps his ward,
Scared with war's sights no more thy peaceful guard.
Long may ye stand, the voice of other years,
And ope, in future times, no fount of tears
And sorrows like the past, such as have brought
A mournful gloom and shadow o'er the thought;
And if the eye one pitying drop has shed,
That drop is sacred, it embalms the dead.
 
 
What though a thousand years have roll'd away
Since thy dread walls entomb'd their noble prey;
To us they speak, ask the warm tear to flow
For ills now pressing and for present woe;
Bid us to succour fellow-men who haste
Along the thorny road of life, and taste
The bitterness of poverty, endure
All that befalls the too neglected poor;
And with no friend, no bounty to assist,
Steal from the world unwept for and unmiss'd.
What though no dungeon wrap the wasting clay,
Or from the eye exclude the cheering ray;
What though no tortures visibly may tear
The writhing limbs, and leave their signet there;
Has not chill penury a poison'd dart,
Inflicting deeper wounds upon the heart?
All the decrees the sternest fate may bind,
To weigh the courage or display the mind —
All man could bear, with heart unflinching bear,
Did not a dearer part his sufferings share —
Worse than the captive's fate — wife, child, his all,
The husband, and the father's name, appall
His very soul, and bid him thrilling feel
Distraction, as he makes the vain appeal.
Upon his brow, where manhood's hand had seal'd
Its perfect dignity, is now reveal'd
A haggard wanness; from his livid eye
The manly fire has faded; cold and dry,
No more it glistens to the light. His thought,
To the last pitch of frantic memory wrought,
Turns to the partner of his heart and woe,
Who, weigh'd with grief, no lesser love can know;
Despair soon haunts the hope that fills his breast,
And passion's flood in tumult is express'd.
 
 
Amid the plains where ample plenty spreads
Her copious stores and decks the yellow meads,
The outcast turns a ghastly look to heaven;
Oh, not for him is Nature's plenty given;
Robb'd of the birthright nature freely gave,
Save that last portion freely left — a grave!
Oh, that another power would rule man's heart,
Uncramp its free-born will in every part;
Mercy more swift, justice more just, more slow,
Grandeur less prone to deal the cruel blow,
To bind men's hands with fetters than with alms,
And spurn the only boon that soothes and calms.
 
 
England! thou dearest child of liberty;
Free as thine ocean home for ever be;
Thy commerce thrive; may thy deserted poor
No more the pangs of poverty endure.
Then shall thy Towers, proud monument! display
The thousand trophies of a happier day;
And genial climes, from earth's remotest shore,
Their richest tributes to her genius pour,
With wealth from Ind, with treasures from the West,
Thy homes, thy hamlets — cities still be blest;
Till virtue, truth, and justice, shall combine,
And heavenly hope o'er many a bosom shine;
Auspicious days hail thy fair Sovereign's reign,
And happy subjects throng their golden train.
 

POEMS AND BALLADS OF GOETHE

No. III

Goethe, though fertile in poems of the amatory and contemplative class, was somewhat chary of putting forth his strength in the ballad. We have already selected almost every specimen of this most popular and fascinating description of poetry which is at all worthy of his genius; — at least all of them which we thought likely, after making every allowance for variety of taste, to fulfil the main object of our task — to please and not offend. It would have been quite easy for us to spin out the series by translating the whole section of ballads which relate to the loves of "the Maid of the Mill," the "Gipsy's Song" — which somewhat unaccountably has found favour in the eyes of Mrs Austin — and a few more ditties of a similar nature, all of which we bequeath, with our best wishes, as a legacy to any intrepid rédacteur who may wish to follow in our footsteps. For ourselves, we shall rigidly adhere to the rule with which we set out, and separate the wheat from the chaff, according to the best of our ability.

 

The first specimen of our present selection is not properly German, nor is it the unsuggested and original product of Goethe's muse. We believe that it is an old ballad of Denmark; a country which possesses, next to Scotland, the richest and most interesting store of ancient ballad poetry in Europe. However, although originally Danish, it has received some touches in passing through the alembic of translation, which may warrant us in giving it a prominent place, and we are sure that no lover of hoar tradition will blame us for its insertion.

The Water-Man
 
"Oh, mother! rede me well, I pray;
How shall I woo me yon winsome May?"
 
 
She has built him a horse of the water clear,
The saddle and bridle of sea-sand were.
 
 
He has donn'd the garb of knight so gay,
And to Mary's Kirk he has ridden away.
 
 
He tied his steed to the chancel door,
And he stepp'd round the Kirk three times and four.
 
 
He has boune him into the Kirk, and all
Drew near to gaze on him, great and small.
 
 
The priest he was standing in the quire; —
"What gay young gallant comes branking here?"
 
 
The winsome maid, to herself said she; —
"Oh, were that gay young gallant for me!"
 
 
He stepp'd o'er one stool, he stepp'd o'er two;
"Oh, maiden, plight me thy oath so true!"
 
 
He stepp'd o'er three stools, he stepp'd o'er four;
"Wilt be mine, sweet May, for evermore?"
 
 
She gave him her hand of the drifted snow —
"Here hast thou my troth, and with thee I'll go."
 
 
They went from the Kirk with the bridal train,
They danced in glee, and they danced full fain;
 
 
They danced them down to the salt-sea strand,
And they left them there with hand in hand.
 
 
"Now wait thee, love, with my steed so free,
And the bonniest bark I'll bring for thee."
 
 
And when they pass'd to the white, white sand,
The ships came sailing towards the land;
 
 
But when they were out in the midst of the sound,
Down went they all in the deep profound!
 
 
Long, long on the shore, when the winds were high,
They heard from the waters the maiden's cry.
 
 
I rede ye, damsels, as best I can —
Tread not the dance with the Water-Man!
 

This is strong, pure, rugged Norse, scarcely inferior, we think, in any way, to the pitch of the old Scottish ballads.

Before we forsake the North, let us try "The King in Thule." We are unfortunate in having to follow in the wake of the hundred translators of Faust, some of whom (we may instance Lord Francis Egerton) have already rendered this ballad as perfectly as may be; nevertheless we shall give it, as Shakspeare says, "with a difference."

The King in Thule
 
There was a king in Thule,
Was true till death I ween:
A vase he had of the ruddy gold,
The gift of his dying queen.
 
 
He never pass'd it from him —
At banquet 'twas his cup;
And still his eyes were fill'd with tears
Whene'er he took it up.
 
 
So when his end drew nearer,
He told his cities fair,
And all his wealth, except that cup,
He left unto his heir.
 
 
Once more he sate at royal board,
The knights around his knee,
Within the palace of his sires,
Hard by the roaring sea.
 
 
Up rose the brave old monarch,
And drank with feeble breath,
Then threw the sacred goblet down
Into the flood beneath.
 
 
He watch'd its tip reel round and dip,
Then settle in the main;
His eyes grew dim as it went down —
He never drank again.
 

We shall now venture on an extravaganza which might have been well illustrated by Hans Holbein. It is in the ultra-Germanic taste, such as in our earlier days, whilst yet the Teutonic alphabet was a mystery, we conceived to be the staple commodity of our neighbours. We shall never quarrel with a wholesome spice of superstition; but, really, Hoffmann, Apel, and their fantastic imitators, have done more to render their national literature ridiculous, than the greatest poets to redeem it. The following poem of Goethe is a strange piece of sarcasm directed against that school, and is none the worse, perhaps, that it somewhat out-herods Herod in its ghostly and grim solemnity. Like many other satires, too, it verges closely upon the serious. We back it against any production of M. G. Lewis.

The Dance of Death
 
The warder look'd down at the depth of night
On the graves where the dead were sleeping,
And, clearly as day, was the pale moonlight
O'er the quiet churchyard creeping.
One after another the gravestones began
To heave and to open, and woman and man
Rose up in their ghastly apparel!
 
 
Ho — ho for the dance! — and the phantoms outsprung
In skeleton roundel advancing,
The rich and the poor, and the old and the young,
But the winding-sheets hinder'd their dancing.
No shame had these revellers wasted and grim,
So they shook off the cerements from body and limb,
And scatter'd them over the hillocks.
 
 
They crook'd their thighbones, and they shook their long shanks,
And wild was their reeling and limber;
And each bone as it crosses, it clinks and it clanks
Like the clapping of timber on timber.
The warder he laugh'd, though his laugh was not loud;
And the Fiend whisper'd to him — "Go, steal me the shroud
Of one of these skeleton dancers."
 
 
He has done it! and backward with terrified glance
To the sheltering door ran the warder;
As calm as before look'd the moon on the dance,
Which they footed in hideous order.
But one and another seceding at last,
Slipp'd on their white garments and onward they pass'd,
And the deeps of the churchyard were quiet.
 
 
Still, one of them stumbles and tumbles along,
And taps at each tomb that it seizes;
But 'tis none of its mates that has done it this wrong,
For it scents its grave-clothes in the breezes.
It shakes the tower gate, but that drives it away,
For 'twas nail'd o'er with crosses — a goodly array —
And well was it so for the warder!
 
 
It must have its shroud — it must have it betimes —
The quaint Gothic carving it catches,
And upwards from story to story it climbs
And scrambles with leaps and with snatches.
Now woe to the warder, poor sinner, betides!
Like a long-legged spider the skeleton strides
From buttress to buttress, still upward!
 
 
The warder he shook, and the warder grew pale,
And gladly the shroud would have yielded!
The ghost had its clutch on the last iron rail
Which the top of the watch-turret shielded.
When the moon was obscured by the rush of a cloud,
One! thunder'd the bell, and unswathed by a shroud,
Down went the gaunt skeleton crashing!
 

A very pleasant piece of poetry to translate at midnight, as we did it, with merely the assistance of a dying candle!

After this feast of horrors, something more fanciful may not come amiss. Let us pass to a competition of flowers in the golden, or — if you will have it so — the iron age of chivalry. The meditations of a captive knight have been a cherished theme for poets in all ages. Richard the Lion-heart of England, and James I. of Scotland, have left us, in no mean verse, the records of their own experience. We all remember how nobly and how well Felicia Hemans portrayed the agony of the crusader as he saw, from the window of his prison, the bright array of his Christian comrades defiling through the pass below. We shall now take a similar poem of Goethe, but one in a different vein: —

 
The Fairest Flower
The Lay of the Captive Earl
 
The Earl.— I know a floweret passing fair,
And for its loss I pain me;
Fain would I hence to seek its lair,
But for these bonds that chain me.
My woes are aught but light to me,
For when I roam'd unbound and free
That flower was ever near me.
 
 
Adown and round the castle's steep,
I let my glances wander;
But cannot from the dizzy keep,
Descry it, there or yonder.
Oh, he who'd bring it to my sight,
Or were he knave or were he knight,
Should be my friend for ever!
 
 
The Rose.— I blossom bright thy lattice near,
And hear what thou hast spoken;
'Tis me — brave, ill-starr'd cavalier —
The Rose, thou wouldst betoken!
Thy spirit spurns the base, the low,
And 'tis the queen of flowers, I know,
That in thy bosom reigneth.
 
 
The Earl.— All honour to thy purple cheer,
From swathes of verdure blowing;
And so art though to maidens dear,
As gold or jewels glowing.
Thy wreaths adorn the fairest face,
Yet art thou not the flower, whose grace
In solitude I cherish.
 
 
The Lily.— A haughty place usurps the rose,
And haughtier still doth covet;
But where the lily meekly blows,
Some gentle eye will love it.
The heart that beats in faithful breast,
And spotless is as my white vest,
Must value me the highest.
 
 
The Earl.— Spotless and true of heart am I,
And free from sinful failing,
Yet must I here a captive lie,
In loneliness bewailing.
I see an image fair in you
Of many maidens pure and true,
Yet know I something dearer.
 
 
The Carnation.— That may thy warder's garden show
In me, the bright carnation,
Else would the old man tend me so
With loving adoration?
In perfect round my petals meet,
And lifelong are with scent replete,
And with a burning colour.
 
 
The Earl.— None may the sweet carnation slight,
It is the gardener's pleasure,
Now he unfolds it to the light,
Now shields from it his treasure.
But no — the flower for which I pant,
No rare, no brilliant charms can vaunt,
'Tis ever meek and lowly.
 
 
The Violet.— Conceal'd and bending I retreat,
Nor willingly had spoken,
Yet that same silence, since 'tis meet,
Shall now by me be broken.
If I be that which fills thy thought
Then must I grieve that I may not
Waft every perfume to thee.
 
 
The Earl.— I love the violet, indeed,
So modest in perfection,
So gently sweet — yet more I need
To soothe my heart's dejection.
To thee alone the truth I'll speak,
That not upon this rock so bleak
Is to be found my darling.
 
 
In yon far vale, earth's truest wife
Sits where the brooks run playing,
And still must wear a woeful life
Till I with her am straying.
When a blue floweret by that spot
She plucks, and says — FORGET-ME-NOT,
I feel it here in bondage.
 
 
Yes, when two truly love, its might
They own and feel in distance,
So I, within this dungeon's night,
Cling ever to existence.
And when my heart is nigh distraught,
If I but say — FORGET-ME-NOT,
Hope burns again within me!
 

Such is constant love — the light even of the dungeon! Nor, to the glory of human nature be it said, is this a fiction. Witness Picciola — witness those letters, perhaps the most touching that were ever penned, from poor Camille Desmoulins to his wife, while waiting for the summons to the guillotine — witness, above all, that fragment signed Quéret-Démery, which could not get beyond the sullen walls of the Bastile until fifty years after the agonizing request was preferred, when that torture-chamber of cruelty was razed indignantly to the ground — "If, for my consolation, Monseigneur would grant me, for the sake of God and the most blessed Trinity, that I could have news of my dear wife! were it only her name on a card to show that she is yet alive! It were the sweetest consolation I could receive; and I should for ever bless the greatness of Monseigneur." Poetry has no such eloquence as this.

But we must not digress from our author. Here are a few lines of the deepest feeling and truth, and most appropriate in the hours of wretchedness —

Sorrow without Consolation
 
O, wherefore shouldst thou try
The tears of love to dry?
Nay, let them flow!
For didst thou only know,
How barren and how dead
Seems every thing below,
To those who have not tears enough to shed,
 

Thou'd'st rather bid them weep, and seek their comfort so.

The following stanzas, though rather inferior in merit, may be taken as a companion to the above. Their structure reminds us of Cowley.

Comfort in Tears
 
How is it that thou art so sad
When others are so gay?
Thou hast been weeping — nay, thou hast!
Thine eyes the truth betray.
 
 
"And if I may not choose but weep,
Is not my grief mine own?
No heart was heavier yet for tears —
O leave me, friend, alone!"
 
 
Come, join this once the merry band,
They call aloud for thee,
And mourn no more for what is lost,
But let the past go free.
 
 
"O, little know ye in your mirth
What wrings my heart so deep!
I have not lost the idol yet
For which I sigh and weep."
 
 
Then rouse thee and take heart! thy blood
Is young and full of fire;
Youth should have hope and might to win,
And wear its best desire.
 
 
"O, never may I hope to gain
What dwells from me so far;
It stands as high, it looks as bright,
As yonder burning star."
 
 
Why, who would seek to woo the stars
Down from their glorious sphere?
Enough it is to worship them,
When nights are calm and clear.
 
 
"Oh, I look up and worship too —
My star it shines by day —
Then let me weep the livelong light
The whilst it is away."
 

A thread from the distaff of Omphale may be stronger than the club of Hercules. Here is an inconstant Romeo escaped from his Juliet, and yet unable to shake off the magnetic spell which must haunt him to his dying day.

To a Golden Heart
 
Pledge of departed bliss,
Once gentlest, holiest token!
Art thou more faithful than thy mistress is,
That ever I must wear thee,
And on my bosom bear thee,
Although the bond that knit her soul with mine is broken?
Why shouldest thou prove stronger?
Short are the days of love, and wouldst thou make them longer?
 
 
Lili! in vain I shun thee!
Thy spell is still upon me.
In vain I wander through the distant forests strange,
In vain I roam at will
By foreign glade and hill,
For, ah! where'er I range,
Beside my heart, the heart of Lili nestles still!
 
 
Like a bird that breaks its twine,
Is this poor heart of mine:
It fain into the summer bowers would fly,
And yet it cannot be
Again so wholly free;
For always it must bear
The token which is there,
To mark it as a thrall of past captivity.
 

Here, again, is Romeo before his escape. Poor Juliet! may we hope that she still has, and may long possess, the power

"To lure this tassel-gentle back again."

Death, indeed, were a gentler fate than desertion. Truth to say, Goethe would have made but a sorry Romeo, for he wanted the great and leading virtue of constancy; and yet who can tell what Romeo might have become, after six months' exile in Mantua? Juliet, we know, had taken the place of Rosaline. Might not some fairer and newer star have arisen to eclipse the image of the other? We will not credit the heresy. Far better that the curtain should fall upon the dying lovers, before one shadow of doubt or suspicion of infidelity has arisen to perplex the clear bright mirror of their souls!

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