ページの画像
PDF
ePub

His

mace, and with a storm of blows The mortal and the demon close.

XIII.

What sees Count Harold in that bower,

So late his resting-place?

The semblance of the Evil Power

Adored by all his race!

Odin in living form stood there,
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear;
For plumy crest, a meteor shed
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head,
Yet veil'd its haggard majesty
To the wild lightnings of his eye.
Such height was his, as when in stone
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown;

So flow'd his hoary beard;
Such was his lance of mountain-pine,
So did his sevenfold buckler shine;

But when his voice he rear'd,

Deep, without harshness, slow and strong,
The powerful accents roll'd along,
And, while he spoke, his hand was laid
On captive Gunnar's shrinking head.

XIV.

<< Harold,> he said, «< what rage is thine To quit the worship of thy line,

To leave thy warrior god?With me is glory or disgrace, Mine is the onset and the chase, Embattled hosts before my face

Are wither'd by a nod.

Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat,
Deserved by many a dauntless feat
Among the heroes of thy line,
Eric and fiery Thorarine?—
Thou wilt not. Only I can give
The joys for which the valiant live,
Victory and vengeance-only I

Can give the joys for which they die,-
The immortal tilt-the banquet full,

The brimming draught from foeman's scull.

Mine art thou, witness this thy glove,
The faithful pledge of vassal's love.»

XV.

<< Tempter!» said Harold, firm of heart,
<< I charge thee hence! whate'er thou art,
I do defy thee-and resist

The kindling frenzy of my breast,
Waked by thy words; and of my mail
Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nor nail,
Shall rest with thee-that youth release,
And god, or demon, part in peace.>>
« Eivir,» the shape replied, «< is mine,
Mark'd in the birth-hour with my sign.
Think'st thou that priest with drops of spray
Could wash that blood-red mark away?
Or that a borrow'd sex and name
Can abrogate a godhead's claim?»>-

Thrill'd this strange speech through Harold's brain,
He clench'd his teeth in high disdain,
For not his new-born faith subdued
Some tokens of his ancient mood.-
<< Now, by the hope so lately given
Of better trust and purer heaven,
I will assail thee, fiend!»-Then rose

XVI.

Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around,
Darken'd the sky and shook the ground;

But not the artillery of hell,
The bickering lightning, nor the rock
Of turrets to the earthquake's shock,
Could Harold's courage quell.
Sternly the Dane his purpose kept,
And blows on blows resistless heap'd,
Till quail'd that demon form,
And-for his power to hurt or kill
Was bounded by a higher will-
Evanish'd in the storm.

Nor paused the Champion of the North,
But raised, and bore his Eivir forth
From that wild scene of fiendish strife,
To light, to liberty, and life!

[blocks in formation]

Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd, Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, The stains of recent conflict clear'd

And thus the champion proved, That he fears now who never fear'd, And loves who never loved. And Eivir-life is on her cheek, And yet she will not move or speak, Nor will her eye-lid fully ope; Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye, Through its long fringe, reserved and shy, Affection's opening dawn to spy; And the deep blush, which bids its dye O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly, Speaks shame-facedness and hope.

XIX.

But vainly seems the Dane to seek
For terms his new-born love to speak,-
For words, save those of wrath and wrong,
Till now were strangers to his tongue;
So, when he raised the blushing maid,
In blunt and honest terms he said,-

380

[blocks in formation]

PREFACE.

IN the EDINBURGH ANNUAL REGISTER for the year 1809, three fragments were inserted, written in imitation of living poets. It must have been apparent, that by these prolusions, nothing burlesque or disrespectful to the authors was intended, but that they were offered to the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of composition, by which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises attracted a greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to complete one of them, and present it as a separate publication.

It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here adopted as his model can, with propriety, be introduced; since his general acquiescence in the favourable suffrage of the public must necessarily be inferred from the attempt he has now made. He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks on what has been called ROMANTIC POETRY;-the popularity of which has been revived in the present day, under the auspices, and by the unparalleled success, of one individual.

The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, a mixture of both. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the features of pure romance; but in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably derived their chief value from their supposed historical authenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song do not exceed in number or

extravagance the figments of the historians of the same period of society; and, indeed, the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of late introduction. Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, Chroniclers, and so forth, are the first historians of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, or the traditions that have reached them; and they clothe the relation in rhyme, merely as the means of rendering it more solemn in the narrative, or more easily committed to memory. But as the poetical historian improves in the art of conveying information, the authenticity of his narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon the events that are interesting to his imagination, and, conscious how indifferent his audience is to the naked truth of his poem, his history gradually becomes a romance.

It is in this situation that those epics are found which have been generally regarded the standards of poetry; and it has happened somewhat strangely, that the moderns have pointed out, as the characteristics and peculiar excellencies of narrative poetry, the very circumstances which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of the historian as well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer selected the siege of Troy as the most appropriate subject for poetry; his purpose was to write the early history of his country: the event he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted for poetry, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical anecdotes extremely interesting to those who were to listen to him; and this he has adorned by the exertions of a genius, which, if it has been equalled,

has certainly been never surpassed. It was not till comparatively a late period that the general accuracy of his narrative, or his purpose in composing it, was brought into question. Δοκει πρωτος ὁ Αναξαγόρας | (καθά φησι Φαβορινος εν παντοδαπῃ ἱστορια) την Όμηρου ποιησιν αποφήνασθαι ειναι αρετης και δικαιοσύνης. But whatever theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical nature. Εναυτίλλετο μετα του Μεν τεως, και όπου έκαστοτε αφίκοιτο, παντα τα επιχωρια διερωτατο, και ίστορεύων επυνθάνετο, εικος ဝါး μένην και μνημοσυνα παντων γραφεσθαι. Instead of recommending the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that critics should have exhorted the poets of these later days to adopt or invent a narrative in itself more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in order to compensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has been inculcated by almost all the writers upon the Epopoeia; with what success, the fate of Homer's numerous imitators may best show. The ultimum supplicium of criticism was inflicted on the author if he did not chuse a subject which at once deprived him of all claim to originality, and placed him, if not in actual contest, at least in fatal comparison, with those giants in the land, whom it was most his interest to avoid. The celebrated recipe for writing an epic poem, which appeared in the Guardian, was the first instance in which common sense was applied to this department of poetry; and indeed, if the question be considered on its own merits, we must be satisfied that narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived of the individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite.

Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects of verse, more interesting in proportion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason a scene immediately presented to the imagination, and directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate of but one or two persons, is more favourable for poetry than the political struggles and convulsions which influence the fate of kingdoms. The former are within the reach and comprehension of all, and, if depicted with vigour, seldom fail to fix attention: the other, if more sublime, are more vague and distant, less capable of being distinctly understood, and infinitely less capable of exciting those sentiments which it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To generalize is always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of an individual soldier in combat, than in the grand event of a general action; with the happiness of two lovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful exertions of a whole nation. what causes this may originate, is a separate, and obviously an immaterial consideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously selfish, it is proper to recollect, that while men see only a limited space, and while their affections and conduct are regulated, not by aspiring at an universal good, but

'Diogenes Laertius, J. XI, p. 8.

2 Homeri Vita.

From

by exerting their power of making themselves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long will individual history and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road to ge neral interest and attention; and perhaps we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as the more accessible, inasmuch as it affords an example capable of being easily imitated.

According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former comprehends a fictitious narative, framed and combined at the pleasure of the writer; beginning and ending as he may judge best; which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernatural machinery; which is free from the technical rules of the Epée; and is subject only to those which good sense, good taste, and good morals apply to every species of poetry without exception. The date may be in a remote age, or in the present; the story may detail the adventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country and its inhabitants, and every thing is permitted to him excepting to be heavy or prosaic, for which, free and un. Those, it is probable, will be found the peculiarities of this embarrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. species of composition; and, before joining the outcry against the vitiated taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be made perfectly apparent. If the want of sieges and battles and great military evolutions in our poetry is complained of, let us reflect, that the campaigns and heroes of our day admits of the aid of fiction; and if the complaint refers are perpetuated in a record that neither requires nor to the inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it does, to subjects, which, however indifferently treated, have still the interest and charm of novelty, and which thus prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more insuperable defects.

THE

BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

COME LUCY! while 't is morning hour,
The woodland brook we needs must pass;
So, ere the sun assume his power,
We shelter in our poplar bower,
Where dew lies long upon the flower,
Though vanish'd from the velvet grass.
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge
May serve us for a sylvan bridge;
For here, compell'd to disunite,

Round petty isles the runnels glide,
And chafing off their puny spite,
The shallow murmurers waste their might,
Yielding to footstep free and light
A dry-shod pass from side to side.

II.

Nay, why this hesitating pause? And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws,

Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim?

Titania's foot without a slip, Like thine, though timid, light, and slim, From stone to stone might safely trip, Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip That binds her slipper's silken rim. Or trust thy lover's strength: nor fear That this same stalwart arm of mine, Which could trunk uprear, oak's prone yon Shall shrink beneath the burthen dear Of form so slender, light and fine.So, now, the danger dared at last, Look back and smile at perils past!

[ocr errors]

And now we reach the favourite glade, Paled in by copse-wood, cliff, and stone, Where never harsher sounds invade,

To break affection's whispering tone, Than the deep breeze that waves the shade, Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. Come! rest thee on thy wonted seat;

Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green, A place where lovers best may meet,

Who would not that their love be seen. The boughs, that dim the summer sky, Shall hide us from each lurking spy,

That fain would spread the invidious tale, How Lucy of the lofty eye,

Noble in birth, in fortunes high,
She for whom lords and barons sigh,
Meets her poor
Arthur in the dale.

IV.

How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh!
And why does Lucy shun mine eye?-
Is it because that crimson draws
Its colour from some secret cause,
Some hidden movement of the breast,
She would not that her Arthur guess'd?
O! quicker far is lovers' ken

Than the dull glance of common men,
And by strange sympathy, can spell
The thoughts the loved one will not tell!
And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met
The hue of pleasure and regret ;
Pride mingled in the sigh her voice,

And shared with Love the crimson glow,
Well pleased that thou art Arthur's choice,
Yet shamed thine own is placed so low.
Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek,
As if to meet the breeze's cooling;
Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak,

For Love, too, has his hours of schooling.

[blocks in formation]

Nor leave me on this mossy bank,

To meet a rival on a throne:
Why, then, should vain repinings rise,
That to thy lover fate denies

A nobler name, a wide domain,
A baron's birth, a menial train,
Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part,
A lyre, a falchion, and a heart?

VI.

My sword-its master must be dumb;
But when a soldier names my name,
Approach, my Lucy! fearless come,

Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame.
My heart-'mid all yon courtly crew,
Of lordly rank and lofty line,

Is there to love and honour true,

That boasts a pulse so warm as mine? They praised thy diamond's lustre rareMatch'd with thine eyes, I thought it faded; They praised the pearls that bound thy hairI only saw the locks they braided; They talk'd of wealthy dower and land,

And titles of high birth the token

I thought of Lucy's heart and hand,
Nor knew the sense of what was spoken.
And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll,

I might have learn'd their choice unwise,
Who rate the dower above the soul,
And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes.

VII.

My lyre-it is an idle toy,

That borrows accents not its own, Like warbler of Columbian sky,

That sings but in a mimic tone.' Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well, Nor boasts it aught of Border spell; Its strings no feudal slogan pour, Its heroes draw no broad claymore; No shouting clans applauses raise, Because it sung their fathers' praise; On Scottish moor, or English down, It ne'er was graced with fair renown; Nor won,-best meed to minstrel true,One favouring smile from fair BUCCLEUCH! By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone.

VIII.

But, if thou bidst, these tones shall tell,
Of errant knight and damozelle;
Of the dread knot a wizard tied,
In punishment of maiden's pride,
In notes of marvel and of fear,
That best may charm romantic ear.

For Lucy loves,-like COLLINS, ill-starr'd name! (1)
Whose lay's requital was, that tardy fame,
Who bound no laurel round his living head,
Should hang it o'er his monument when dead,—
For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand,
And thread, like him, the maze of fairy-land;
Of golden battlements to view the gleam,
And slumber soft by some Elysian stream:
Such lays she loves,-and, such my Lucy's choice,
What other song can claim her poet's voice?
The Mocking Bird.

CANTO J.

I.

WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain,

That may match with the Baron of Triermain? (2)
She must be lovely and constant and kind,
Holy and pure and humble of mind,
Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood,
Courteous and generous and noble of blood-
Lovely as the sun's first ray,

When it breaks the clouds of an April day;
Constant and true as the widow'd dove,
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave,
Where never sun-beam kiss'd the wave;
Humble as maiden that loves in vain,
Holy as hermit's vesper strain;

Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies,

Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs;
Courteous as monarch the morn he is crown'd, ́
Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground;
Noble her blood as the currents that met
In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet-
Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain,
That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

II.

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,
His blood it was fever'd, his breathing was deep.
He had been pricking against the Scot,
The foray was long and the skirmish hot;
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight
Bore token of a stubborn fight.

All in the castle must hold them still,
Harpers must lull him to his rest,
With the slow soft tunes he loves the best,
Till sleep sink down upon his breast,
Like the dew on a summer-hill.

III.

It was the dawn of an autumn day;

The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray,
That like a silvery crape was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head,
And faintly gleam'd each painted pane
Of the lordly halls of Triermain,

When that Baron bold awoke.
Starting he woke, and loudly did call,
Rousing his menials in bower and hall,
While hastily he spoke.

IV.

<< Hearken, my minstrels! Which of Touch'd his harp with that dying fall,

So sweet, so soft, so faint,

It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call

To an expiring saint?

V.

Answer'd him Richard de Brettville; he
Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy,-

<< Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sate since midnight close,

When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings
Murmur'd from our melting strings,

And hush'd you to repose.
Had a harp-note sounded here,
It had caught my watchful ear,
Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh,
When she thinks her lover near.>>
Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall,

He kept guard in the outer hall,—
<«<Since at eve our watch took post,
Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;

Else had I heard the steps, though low,
And light they fell as when earth receives,
In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves,
That drop when no winds blow.»—

VI.

<< Then come thou hither, Henry, my page,
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,
When that dark castle, tower,
and spire,
Rose to the skies a pile of fire,

And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill,
And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke
Through devouring flame and smothering smoke,

Made the warrior's heart-blood chill!
The trustiest thou of all my train,
My fleetest courser thou mus rein,
And ride to Lyulph's tower,
And from the Baron of Triermain
Greet well that sage of power.
He is sprung from druid sires,
And British bards that tuned their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise. (3)
Gifted like his gifted race,
He the characters can trace,
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,
Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,
From mystic dreams and course of stars.

He shall tell if middle earth

To that enchanting shape gave birth,

Or if 't was but an airy thing,

Such as fantastic slumbers bring,

Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes,

Or fading tints of western skies.

For, by the blessed rood I swear,

[blocks in formation]

If that fair form breathe vital air,

And hearken, my merrymen! What time or where
Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow,
With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,
And her graceful step and her angel air,
And the eagle-plume in her dark-brown hair,
That pass'd from my bower e'en now ?»-

No other maiden by my side
Shall ever rest de Vaux's bride!»-

VII.

The faithful page he mounts his steed,
And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead,
Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,
And Eden barr'd his course in vain.
He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round, (4)
For feats of chivalry renown'd,

« 前へ次へ »