contrast and relief to the music of despair with which Goethe's work is closed :
"All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; For I have baffled with mine agony, And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon-wall; And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; And revell'd among men and things divine, And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, In honour of the sacred war for Him, The God who was on earth and is in heaven; For He hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, I have employ'd my penance to record How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored."
such creations is that of the awful but irregular Faust, and other works of Goethe, in which the restless questionings, the lofty aspirations, and dark misgivings of the human soul, are perpetually called up to come like shadows, so depart," across the stormy splendours of the scene; and the mind is engaged in ceaseless conflict with the interminable mysteries of life. It is otherwise with the work before us: overshadowed, as it were, by the dark wings of the inflexible Des tiny which hovers above the children of Tantalus, the spirit of the imaginary personages, as well as of the reader, here moves acquiescently within the prescribed circle of events, and is seldom tempted beyond, to plunge into the abyss of general speculations upon the lot of humanity.
THERE is a charm of antique grace, of the majestic repose resulting from a faultless symmetry, about the whole of this composition, which inclines us to rank it as among the most consummate works of art ever achieved by the mastermind of its author. The perfection of its design and finish is analogous to that of a Grecian temple, seen as the crown of some old classic height, with all its pure outlines-all the delicate proportions of its airy pillars-brought into bold relief by the golden sunshine, and against the unclouded blue of its native heavens. Complete within itself, the harmonious edifice is thus also to the mind and eye of the beholder; they are filled, and desire no more-they even feel that more would be but encumbrance upon the fine adjustment of the well-ordered parts constituting the graceful whole. It sends no vague dreams to wander through infinity, such as are excited by a Gothic minster, where the slight pinnacles striving upward, like the free but still baffled thought of the architect-the clustering pillars and high arches imitating the bold combinations of mysterious forests-the many-branching cells, and long visionary aisles, of which waving torchlight or uncertain glimpses of the moon seem the fittest illumination-ever suggest ideas of some conception in the originally moulding mind, far more vast than the means allotted to human accomplishment of struggling endeavour, and painfully submitted will. Akin to the spirit of
JOY OF PYLADES ON HEARING HIS NATIVE LANGUAGE.
O sweetest voice! O bless'd familiar sound Of mother-words heard in the stranger's land! I see the blue hills of my native shore, The far blue hills again! those cordial tones, Before the captive bid them freshly rise For ever welcome! Oh, by this deep joy, Know the true son of Greece !
EXCLAMATIONS OF IPHIGENIA ON SEEING HER BROTHER.
OH, hear me ! look upon me! How my heart, After long desolation, now unfolds Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head, Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth! To clasp thee with my arms, which were but thrown On the void winds before! Oh, give me way! Give my soul's rapture way! The eternal fount Leaps not more brightly forth from cliff to cliff Of high Parnassus, down the golden vale, Than the strong joy bursts gushing from my heart, And swells around me to a flood of bliss -- Orestes --O my brother!
LOT OF MAN AND WOMAN COMPARED BY IPHIGENIA.
Man by the battle's hour immortalised May fall, yet leave his name to living song; But of forsaken woman's countless tears, What recks the after-world? The poet's voice Tells naught of all the slow, sad, weary days,
And long, long nights, through which the lonely Pour'd itself forth, consumed itself away, [soul In passionate adjurings, vain desires, And ceaseless weepings for the early lost, The loved and vanish'd!
LONGING OF ORESTES FOR REPO3E.
One draught from Lethe's flood!-reach me one draught,
One last cool goblet fill'd with dewy peace! Soon will the spasm of life departing leave My bosom free! Soon shall my spirit flow Along the deep waves of forgetfulness, Calmly and silently! away to you,
Ye dead! Ye dwellers of the eternal cloud! Take home the son of earth, and let him steep His o'erworn senses in your dim repose For evermore.
CONTINUATION OF ORESTES' SOLILOQUY. Hark! in the trembling leaves
Mysterious whispers: hark! a rushing sound Sweeps through yon twilight depth !-e'en now they come,
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone, Were we of mould all earthly-we alone, Sever'd from thy great spell, and doom'd to go. Farther, still farther, from our sunny time, Never to feel the breathings of our prime, Never to flower again! But we, O Spring! Cheer'd by deep spirit-whispers not of earth, Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth, [sing. As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and
FAR from the rustlings of the poplar-bough, Which o'er my opening life wild music made, Far from the green hills with their heathery glow And flashing streams whereby my childhood play'd; In the dim city, midst the sounding flow Of restless life, to thee in love I turn O thou rich Sky! and from thy splendours learn How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow.
With thee all shapes of glory find their home, And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome! By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'd With founts of beauty for the eye of love.
They throng to greet their guest! And who are they Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, Rejoicing each with each in stately joy, As a king's children gather'd for the hour Of some high festival! Exultingly,
And kindred-like, and godlike, on they pass— The glorious, wandering shapes! aged and young, Proud men and royal women! Lo! my race- My sire's ancestral race!
RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.
[These sonnets, written in the months of April, May, and June, were intended, together with the Records of the Autumn of 1834, to form a continuation of the series entitled "Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial."]
O FESTAL Spring! midst thy victorious glow, Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains, And streams, that bound to meet thee from their
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe
ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.1
OH! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those Who, richly dower'd for life, are call'd to die Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won In truth's divinest ether, still and high! [repose Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh! Deem them but sad, sweet fragments of a strain, First notes of some yet struggling harmony, By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain Of many inspirations met, and held [swell'd From its true sphere,-oh! soon it might have Majestically forth! Nor doubt that He, Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free!
1 Written after reading some of the earlier poems of the late Mrs Tiglie, which had been lent her in manuscript.
ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKY-LARK.
UPWARD and upward still!-in pearly light The clouds are steep'd! the vernal spirit sighs With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies Woo thee, O bird! to thy celestial height. Bird, piercing heaven with music! thy free flight Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all For those wherein the rapture and the might Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn, For their high place. O heirs of genius! learn From the sky's bird your way! No joy may fill Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won To bless your songs, ye children of the sun! [still! Save by the unswerving flight, upward and upward
Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from thee, To that sole changeless world, where "there is no more sea."1
DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING.
YET, rolling far up some green mountain-dale, Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard, Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird And bee to rest; when summer-tints grow pale, Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil; And peasant-steps are hastening to repose, And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close To the last whisper of the falling gale. Then midst the dying of all other sound, When the soul hears thy distant voice profound, Lone worshipping, and knows that through the night
My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main! The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound | Speaks to our being of the Eternal One,
"Twill worship still, then most its anthem-tone
In my lone being, made thy restless plain
As the vast, shining floor of some dread fane,
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep! Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, Never to thee did love with silvery chain Draw my soul's dream, which through all nature sought
What waves deny,-some bower of steadfast bliss, A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, As with sweet flowers. But chasten'd hope for this
[The sight and sound of the sea were always connected in her mind with melancholy associations; with
"Doubt, and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear;"
with images of storm and desolation, of shipwreck and sen- burial: the last, indeed, was so often present to her imagina- tion, and has so frequently been introduced into her poetry, that any one inclined to superstitious presentiments might almost have been disposed to fancy it a foreshadowing of some such dark fate in store either for herself or for some one dear to her. These associations, like those awakened by the wind, were perfectly distinct from any thing of personal timi- dity, and were the more indefinable, as she had never suffered any calamity at all connected with the sea: none of those she loved had been consigned to its reckless waters, nor had she ever seen it in all its terrors, for the coast on which her early years were passed is by no means a rugged or dangerous one, and is seldom visited by disaster.
"Are all these notes in thee, wild wind! these many notes in thee? Far in our own unfathom'd souls their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping there, thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are poured through all earth's harmonies."
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.
THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.
O CAMBRIAN river! with slow music gliding By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers; Now midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding, Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers;
In one of her later sonnets on this subject, a chord is struck which may perhaps find an echo in other bosoms:"Yet, O blue deep!" etc.
The same feeling is expressed in one of her letters:-" Did you ever observe how strangely sounds and images of waters -rushing torrents, and troubled ocean-waves, are mingled with the visionary distresses of dreams and delirium? To me there is no more perfect emblem of peace than that expressed by the Scriptural phrase, 'There shall be no more sea.'"
How forcible is the contrast between the essential womanliness of these associations, so full of "the still, sad music of humanity," and the "stern delight" with which Lord Byron, in his magnificent apostrophe to the Sea, exults in its ministry of wrath, and recounts, as with a fierce joy, its dealings with its victim, man!
"The vile strength he wields For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth-there let him lay.” CHILDE HAROLD.]
Long flow'd the current of my life's clear hours Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream,
Tho' time and change, and other mightier powers, Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth
Art winding still thy sunny meads along, Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song, Low, sweet, unchanged. My being's tide hath pass'd Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain, If, thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain, Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.
DOTH thy heart stir within thee at the sight Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough? [glow Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the Of childhood's morn-the wondering, fresh delight In earth's new colouring, then all strangely bright, A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook, Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms white Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot, And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot, And the bee's dreary chime? O gentle friend! The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life be-
STILL are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off, grassy dell?--and dost thou see, When southern winds first wake their vernal sing- The star-gleam of the wood anemone? Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet? the bee Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms? and, round my beechen tree, Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell?
Oh, strange illusion! by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face!
[ It would have been very dear to her, could she have foreseen the delicate and appropriate commemoration awarded to her by Mr Wordsworth, in the elegiac stanzas which record the high names of some of his most distinguished contemporaries, (Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Crabbe, and Hogg,)
My being's tide of many-colour'd thought Hath pass'd from thee; and now, rich, leafy place! I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow'd by what hath been.
A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.1
O VALE and lake, within your mountain-urn Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep With light Elysian; for the hues that steep Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene, Most loved by evening and her dewy star! Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar The perfect music of thy charm serene ! Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.
THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. TREES, gracious trees !-how rich a gift ye are, Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes! How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings rise! How the whole picture of a childhood lies Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep! Till, gazing through them up the summer skies, As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep, And old, sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world Where memory coils-and lo! at once unfurl'd, The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight Spreads clear; while, gushing from their longseal'd urn, [return, Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.
AND ye are strong to shelter !—all meek things, All that need home and covert, love your shade!
summoned in quick succession "to the land whence none return :"
"Mourn rather for that holy spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep, For her who, ere her summer faded, Has sunk into a breathless sleep."]
Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, And nun-like violets, by the winds betray'd. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play'd [sought
With his first primrose-wreath: there love hath A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought; And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim; For wheresoe'er your murmuring tremours thrill The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.
ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD.
O GENTLE story of the Indian isle!
I loved thee in my lonely childhood well On the sea-shore, when day's last, purple smile Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean-pictures. Midst thy palms And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell, And watch the southern cross through midnight calms,
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd Thy vision of sweet love-kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves, a heavenly guest, With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o'er this world's power
To reach with blight that holiest Eden-flower.
A THOUGHT AT SUNSET.
STILL that last look is solemn! though thy rays, O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know, The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze Tracks thee with love half-fearful: and in days When earth too much adored thee, what a swell Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, O sun of Greece! O glorious, festal sun! Lost, lost for them thy golden hours were done,
1 The sonnet "To an aged Friend," first published in Mrs Hemans's Poctical Remains, was addressed to Dr Perceval of Dublin. The sonnet" To the Datura Arborea," in the same volume, was written after seeing a superb specimen of
And darkness lay before them! Happier far Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd, Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd- Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.
IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.
CALM scenes of patriarch life! how long a power Your unworn pastoral images retain O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels' train Winding in patience o'er the desert plain- The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock, The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock- Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain, And in the influence of its touch how bless'd, Are these things link'd, in many a thoughtful breast, To household-memories, thro' all change endear'd! -The matin bird, the ripple of a stream Beside our native porch, the hearth-light's gleamı, The voices, earliest by the soul revered!
WHAT secret current of man's nature turns Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow? Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow; Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and slow,
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know Where pass'd the shepherd-fathers of mankind. Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far Still points to where our alienated home Lay in bright peace? O thou true Eastern star! Saviour! atoning Lord! where'er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain !
NOT long thy voice amongst us may be heard, Servant of God !-thy day is almost done;
that striking plant in Dr Perceval's beautiful greenhouse at Annefield.
Dr Perceval died 3d March 1839, equally respected for his talents and virtues.
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