The last pale rose which lured the lingering bee "The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowing, Which looks like death, though but restoring birth. With darkness compass'd round-those sightless eyes Wrapt in sublime contemplation, the aged bard hears not the approaching tread. But a pilgrim from the far and sunny clime is near, impressed by an irrepressible longing to behold once more the face of him who had wooed her long ago. Alas! can that blind grey man have been the lover of her youth? No recognition follows; for earthly ties and earthly thoughts are all unmeet for the soul that is already half with God. A brief interval, and all is over. "A death-bell ceased ;-beneath the vault were laid A great man's bones ;-and when the rest were gone, Veil'd, and in sable widow'd weeds array'd, An aged woman knelt upon the stone. Low as she pray'd, the wailing notes were sweet So terminates this fine poem, perhaps the best sustained in the volume. Difficult as was the subject, the author's treatment of it has been eminently successful, while the melody and exquisite construction of the verse are in accordance with the sentiments it conveys. We cannot give the same meed of praise to another elaborate poem which is entitled 'Constance, or the Portrait.' It is a tale of modern times and of modern life, which might have afforded excellent scope for the novelist, but is not suitable for the delicate touches which are the triumph of the poetic art. It is a trite but true observation, that the realms of the past are the proper ground for the poet; and in narrative, at least, we are inclined to think that the nearer he approaches to his own time, the less likely he is to succeed. There may be no lack of romance in the incidents, or of passion in the emotions he portrays; but the accessories, which he cannot altogether avoid, belong to our ordinary prosaic life, and will not bear that amount of poetic colouring which is necessary to complete the illusion. In this sense it is undeniable that distance does lend enchantment to the view; for the language which appears to us so beautiful when uttered by a Romeo or a Juliet, would assuredly be deemed out of place if put into the mouths of denizens of May Fair existing in the reign of Queen Victoria. So difficult is it to adapt recent events to the poetic standard, that no one has yet deemed it possible to construct an epic or a rhymed romance upon the basis of events which occurred during the Peninsular War, or the campaigns of the first Napoleon; and more than a century must elapse before the expedition to the Crimea can furnish an available theme. Impose upon a poet the task of describing a Gothic castle, with its banqueting-hall, its dungeon-keep, and the retinue of men-at-arms and mailed knights that thronged the courtyard and the corridors-and, if he is a master of his craft, he will bring before your eyes a vision of the olden time, as perfect as if it had been raised by the wave of the wand of an enchanter. But ask him to depict a ball-room, and to people it with beings whom we cannot disassociate from the notion of crinoline and the uniform of the Blues-bid him describe in melodious verse the giddy sensations of the waltz, or give poetic utterance to the whispered conversations at a table laid out with the delicacies of Gunterand you will find a woeful difference between his treatment of the past and of the present. We see no incongruity when Shylock talks, in good blank verse, of his ducats, or the rate of usance, on the Rialto; but gravity itself would not be proof against the heroics of a modern banker or broker deploring a change in the rate of interest, or a depreciation in Venezuelan securities. However dexterously Sir E. B. Lytton has tried to surmount this obvious difficulty of giving poetical treatment to a subject essentially modern, we do not think that he has succeeded; but it is no disgrace to have failed in an attempt which might have tasked to the uttermost, if even he could have achieved it, the marvellous ingenuity and unparalleled versatility of Chaucer. Turning to the minor poems, we recognise, with no ordinary pleasure, one which has already graced the pages of the Magazine, and which we regard as one of the most perfect specimens of that difficult style of composition, the allegorical, which has been composed during the present century. We confess to have, in the abstract, no great liking for allegories, which generally are sickly things, "that palter to us in the double sense," and seldom lead to any satisfactory conclusion. Our opinions upon this point may appear to many heretical, but with all our love for Edmund Spenserthe sweetest poet, who was not likewise a dramatist, of the noble Elizabethan era of literature-we cannot help wishing that he had made 'The Faerie Queene' a grand historical epic, with Arthur for its hero, instead of a shadowy representation of cardinal virtues and the issue of opposing faiths. Spenser, we are assured, but yielded or conformed to the taste of his age, then imbued with Italian tendencies; and the school of which he was the brightest ornament came to an ignoble end in the hands of Giles and Phineas Fletcher. The finest sustained allegory of the world is, undoubtedly, that of John Bunyan, the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and with our language alone can it perish. But a short allegory is, like a parable or an apologue, most effective if true to 66 its conditions; and we know of none which are more perfectly appropriate or musically expressed than this of 'The Boatman,' which, for the gratification of our regular readers, who have seen and admired it already, it is quite unnecessary that we should quote. Most musical is it in its flow; reminding us, almost unconsciously, of the passage of Thalaba with the maiden in the enchanted boat, one of the most exquisite strains of poetry that are to be found in the English language. But we pass to another in which we can claim no paternity even by adoption- and we pray you, reader, to hearken to the strain of 66 THE PILGRIM OF THE DESERT. Sand, ever sand, not a gleam of the fountain; Life dwelt with life in my far native valleys, Labour had brothers to aid and beguile; A tear for my tear, and a smile for my smile; Under the almond-tree, once in the spring-time, The sigh of my Leila was hush'd on my breast, Below on the herbage there darken'd a shadow; Dropp'd from the almond-tree, sighing, the blossom; He stood grey with age in the robe of a Dervise, And the cold of his eye like the diamond was bright, And my herds gave the milk, and my tent gave the shelter; With his tales, all the night, of the far world of wonder, I seized as I listen'd, in fancy, the treasures Scared the serpents that watch in the ruins afar Morn came, and I went with my guest through the gorges The flocks bleated low as I passed them ungrieving, We won through the Pass-the Unknown lay before me, Then I turn'd to my guest, but how languid his tread, 'Hope and Wisdom soon part; be it so,' said the Dervise, 'My mission is done.' As he spoke, came the gleam of the crescent and spear, What profits to speak of the wastes I have traversed One by one the procession, replacing the guide, Have dropp'd on the sands, or have stray'd from my side; And I hear never more in the solitudes traversed The camel-bell's chime. How oft I have yearn'd for the old happy valley, He who scorn'd what was near must advance to the far, So on, ever on, spreads the path of the Desert, Sand, ever sand-not a gleam of the fountain; How narrow content, and how infinite knowledge! Enclosed in the garden the mortal was blest: A world with its wonders lay round him unguest; After this, is it necessary to give more specimens of this delightful volume? Perhaps not. It might disappoint some to dwell upon what they might esteem drearier fancies -for, as we have already hinted, some of the poems are so grave and sombre, that they rather suggest autumnal fancies than those which are suitable for the period of spring. French critics have said that our recent English poetry is, as a whole, too melancholy in its tone; and we cannot, with truth, aver that they are altogether mistaken in that judgment. Why it should be so we cannot understand. The elder poets, both of England and Scotland, were joyous in the extreme; and merrier men-within the limits of becoming mirth-you could not find than Geoffrey Chaucer, or Gawain Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld. Why should Sir E. B. Lytton be dolorous? He stands acknowledged as the first novelist of the age-he has achieved the "Let us fill urns with rose-leaves in our May, The poems entitled 'Parcæ, or Leaves from History,' are finely conceived, especially that relating to Mary Stuart. We must, however, refer our readers for these to the volume, from which we have already drawn largely; and our last extract shall be one that Schiller might have been proud to own, though it bears the unmistakable mark of the original genius of his translator : 66 THE TRUE JOY-GIVER. "Oh Evoë, Liber Pater, : Oh, the vintage feast divine, When the Faun laugh'd out at morning; And the Earth itself was drunken Oh Evoë, Liber Pater, Thou, whose orgies are upon Ah, how often have I hail'd thee! The gay swinger of the thyrsus, When its wither'd leaves were green! |