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THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
———
BY THE LATE EDGAR A. POE.
———
[FROM advance
sheets of the
new volume by Mr. Poe, in the press of Mr. Redfield, we present the
following
admirable essay embodying the critic's theory of poetry. It
appropriately
introduces his discussions of the individual merit of many of our
prominent
authors. This concluding volume of Poe's works, making some six hundred
pages, is entitled "The Literati," and will be published in
about
three weeks.]
In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have
no design to
be either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random,
the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be
to
cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American
poems
which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left
the
most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully
or
wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
phrase,
"a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem
deserves its
title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of
the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all
excitements
are, through a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement
which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained
throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half
an
hour, at the very utmost, it flags — fails — a revulsion ensues — and
then
the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
There are, no doubt, many who have
found difficulty
in reconciling the critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be
devoutly
admired throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for
it, during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical,
only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
Unity,
we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity
— its totality of effect or impression — we read it (as would be
necessary)
at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of
excitement
and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry,
there
follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical
pre-judgment
can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the work, we read it
again,
omitting the first book — that is to say, commencing with the second —
we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which we before
condemned
— that damnable which we had previously so much admired. It follows
from
all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effect of even the
best
epic under the sun, is a nullity: — and this is precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if
not positive
proof, at least very good reason for believing it intended as a series
of lyrics; but, granting the epic intention, I can say only that the
work
is based in an imperfect sense of art. The modern epic is, of the
supposititious
ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the
day
of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long
poem were popular
in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem
will ever be popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work
is, ceteris
paribus, the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus
state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd — yet we are indebted for
it
to the Quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere size,
abstractly
considered — there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a
volume
is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
physical
magnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of
the
sublime — but no man is impressed after this fashion by the
material
grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not
instructed
us to be so impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted
on
our estimating Lamar" tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound —
but what else are we to infer from their continual prating
about
"sustained effort?" If, by "sustained effort," any little gentleman has
accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the effort — if
this
indeed be a thing commendable — but let us forbear praising the epic
on the effort's account. It is to be hoped that common sense, in the
time
to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art, rather by the
impression
it makes — by the effect it produces — than by the time it took to
impress
the effect, or by the amount of "sustained effort" which had been found
necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance
is
one thing and genius quite another — nor can all the Quarterlies in
Christendom
confound them. By and by, this proposition, with many which I have been
just urging, will be received as self-evident. In the meantime, by
being
generally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged
as truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a
poem may be
improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very
short poem, while now and then producing a
brilliant or vivid,
never
produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady
pressing
down of the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought
innumerable
things,
pungent and spirit-stirring; but, in general, they have been too
imponderous
to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention; and thus, as so
many
feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the
wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect
of undue brevity
in depressing a poem — in keeping [column 2:] it
out
of the popular view — is afforded by the following exquisite little
Serenade:
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me — who knows how? —
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream —
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last! |
Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines — yet
no less a poet than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate
and
ethereal imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so
thoroughly
as by him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to
bathe
in the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis —
the very best,
in my opinion, which he has ever written — has, no doubt, through this
same
defect of undue brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not
less
in the critical than in the popular view:
The shadows lay along Broadway,
'Twas near the twilight-tide —
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly,
Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charm'd the air;
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair —
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true —
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo —
But honor'd well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair —
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail —
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way! —
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven
By man is cursed alway! |
In this composition we find it difficult to
recognize
the Willis who has written so many mere "verses of society."
The
lines are not only richly ideal, but full of energy; while they breathe
an earnestness — an evident sincerity of sentiment — for which we look
in
vain throughout all the other works of this author.
While the epic mania — while the idea
that, to merit
in poetry, prolixity is indispensable — has, for some years past, been
gradually
dying out of the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity — we
find
it succeeded by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but
one
which, in the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic.
It
has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
the
ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should
inculcate a moral; and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work
to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy
idea;
and we Bostonians, very especially, have developed it in full. We have
taken
it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's sake, and
to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to confess
ourselves
radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and force: — but the
simple
fact is, that, would we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls
we
should immediately there discover that under the sun there neither
exists
nor can exist any work more thoroughly dignified — more
supremely
noble than this very poem — this poem per se — this poem which
is
a poem and nothing more — this poem written solely for the poem's sake.
With as deep a reverence for the True
as ever inspired
the bosom of man, I would nevertheless, limit, in some measure, its
modes
of inculcation. I would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble
them
by dissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy
with
the myrtles. All that which is so indispensable in Song, is
precisely
all that with which she has nothing whatever to do.
It is
but making her a flaunting paradox, to wreathe her in gems and flowers.
In enforcing a truth, we need severity rather than efflorescence of
language.
We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm,
unimpassioned.
In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the
exact converse of the poetical. He must be blind indeed who
does
not perceive the radical and chasmal differences between the truthful
and
the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond
redemption
who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting
to
reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
Dividing the world of mind into its
three most immediately
obvious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral
Sense. I place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position
which,
in the mind, it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either
extreme;
but from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
Aristotle
has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues
themselves.
Nevertheless, we find the offices of the trio marked with a
sufficient
distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste
informs us of the Beautiful while the Moral Sense is regardful of
Duty.
Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the obligation, and Reason the
expediency, Taste contents herself with displaying the charms: — waging
war upon Vice solely on the ground of her deformity — her disproportion
— her animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, to the harmonious —
in a word, to Beauty.
An immortal instinct, deep within the
spirit of man,
is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. This it is which
administers
to his delight in the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and
sentiments
amid which he exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or
the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written
repetition
of these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments, a
duplicate
source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who
shall
simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a
truth
of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and
sentiments,
which greet him in common with all mankind — he, I say, has
yet
failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something in the
distance
which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst
unquenchable,
to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst
belongs
to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and an
indication
of his perennial existence. It is the desire of [column 3:]
the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before
us — but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an
ecstatic
prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle, by multiform
combinations
among the things and thoughts of Time, to attain a portion of that
Loveliness
whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone. And thus
when
by Poetry, —or when by Music, the most entrancing of the Poetic moods —
we
find ourselves melted into tears — we weep then — not as the
Abbaté
Gravina
supposes — through excess of pleasure, but through a certain, petulant,
impatient
sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at
once
and
for
ever, those divine and rapturous joys, of which through the
poem,
or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate
glimpses.
The struggle to apprehend the
supernal Loveliness
— this struggle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted — has given
to the world all that which it (the world) has ever been
enabled
at once to understand and to feel as poetic.
The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may
develop itself
in various modes — in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the
Dance
— very especially in Music — and very peculiarly, and with a wide
field,
in the composition position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme,
however, has regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me
speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the
certainty
that Music, in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so
vast a moment in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected — is so vitally
important an adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its
assistance,
I will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in
Music,
perhaps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which,
when
inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles — the creation of
supernal
Beauty. It may be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now
and
then, attained in fact. We are often made to feel, with a
shivering
delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot have
been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that
in the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find
the
widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
had advantages which we do not possess — and Thomas Moore, singing his
own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as
poems.
To recapitulate, then: — I would
define, in brief,
the Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its
sole
arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience, it has
only
collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever
either
with Duty or with Truth.
A few words, however, in explanation. That pleasure
which is at once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most
intense,
is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the
contemplation of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that
pleasurable
elevation, or excitement, of the soul, which we recognise as
the
Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth,
which
is the satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the
excitement
of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore — using the word as inclusive of
the sublime — I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it
is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as
directly
as possible from their causes: — no one as yet having been weak enough
to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least most
readily attainable
in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the incitements of
Passion,
or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be
introduced
into a poem, and with advantage; for they may subserve, incidentally,
in
various ways, the general purposes of the work: — but the true artist
will
always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty
which
is the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.
I cannot better introduce the few
poems which I shall
present for your consideration, than by the citation of the Pröem
to Mr. Longfellow's "Waif"
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an Eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist;
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time [[Time]].
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away. |
With no great range of imagination, these lines have
been justly admired for their delicacy of expression. Some of the
images
are very effective. Nothing can be better than —
—————— the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Down the corridors of Time.
|
The idea of the last quatrain is also very
effective.
The poem, on the whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the
graceful insouciance of
its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments,
and especially for the ease of the general manner. This
"ease,"
or
naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion to
regard
as ease in appearance alone — as a point of really difficult
attainment.
But not so: — a natural manner is difficult only to him who should
never
meddle with it — to the unnatural. It is but the result of writing with
the understanding, or with the instinct, that the tone, in
composition,
should always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt — and must
perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The author who, after
the
fashion of "The North American Review," should be, upon all occasions,
merely "quiet," must necessarily upon many occasions, be
simply
silly,
or stupid; and has no more right to be considered "easy," or "natural,"
than
a Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the wax-works.
Among the minor poems of Bryant, none
has so much
impressed me as the one which he entitles "June." I quote only a
portion
of it: [column 4:]
There, through the long, long
summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale, close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife-bee and humming bird.
And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their soften'd hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is — that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice. |
The rhythmical flow, here, is even voluptuous —
nothing
could be more melodious. The poem has always affected me in a
remarkable
manner. The intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the
surface of all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find
thrilling
us to the soul — while there is the truest poetic elevation in the
thrill.
The impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
remaining
compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a
similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we
know
not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all
the
higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
|
The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so
full
of brilliancy and spirit as the "Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney: —
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the flagrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns, —
The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's but hers.
I fill'd this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon —
Her health! and would on earth there stood,
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
|
It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to
have been
born
too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he
would
have been ranked as the first of American lyrists, by that magnanimous
cabal
which has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in
conducting
the
thing called "The North American Review." The poem just cited is
especially
beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces, we must refer
chiefly
to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for
the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
It was by no means my design,
however, to expatiate
upon the merits of what I should read you. These will
necessarily
speak for themselves. Boccalini, in his "Advertisements from
Parnassus,"
tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism
upon
a very admirable book: — whereupon the god asked him for the beauties
of
the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On
hearing
this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out
all
the chaff for his reward.
Now this fable answers very well as a
hit at the
critics — but I am by no means sure that the god was in the right. I am
by no means certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not
grossly
misunderstood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in
the
light of an axiom, which need only be properly put, to become
self-evident.
It is not excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:
—
and thus, to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is
to admit that they are not merits altogether.
Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore,
is one whose
distinguished character as a poem proper, seems to have been singularly
left out of view. I allude to his lines beginning — "Come, rest in this
bosom." The intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by
anything
in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed
that
embodies the all in all of the divine passion of Love — a
sentiment
which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
human
hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:
Come, rest in this bosom, my own
stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, —
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too!
|
It has been the fashion, of late days, to deny Moore Imagination, while
granting
him Fancy — a distinction originating with Coleridge — than whom no man
more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, that
the
fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties,
and
over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally,
the
idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater
mistake.
Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass
of the English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly —
more
wierdly [[weirdly]] imaginative, in the best sense, than the
lines
commencing
— "I would I were [column 5:] by that dim lake" —
which
are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to
remember
them.
One of the noblest — and, speaking of
Fancy, one
of the most singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His
"Fair
Ines" had always, for me, an inexpressible charm:
O saw ye not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest:
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
O, turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivall'd bright;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gaily by thy side,
And whisper'd thee so near!
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream,
— If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before, —
Alas, for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore!
The smile that blest one lover's heart
Has broken many more! |
"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems
ever
written — one of the truest — one of the most unexceptionable —
one of
the
most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It
is,
moreover, powerfully ideal — imaginative. I regret that its length
renders
it unsuitable for the purposes of this Lecture. In place of it, permit
me
to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs": —
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care; ——
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing. —
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family —
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd —
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran, —
Over the brink of it,
Picture it, — think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, — kindly, —
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest, —
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Savior!
|
The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than
its
pathos. The versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very
verge
of the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild
insanity
which is the thesis of the poem.
Among the minor poems of Lord Byron,
is one which
has never received from the critics the praise which it undoubtedly
deserves:
Though the day of my destiny's
over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee. [column
6:]
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain — it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn —
They may torture, but shall not subdue me —
'Tis of thee that I think — not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake, —
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one —
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that which I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
|
Although the rhythm, here, is one of the most difficult, the
versification
could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the
pen
of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea, that no man can consider
himself
entitled to complain of Fate while, in his adversity, he still retains
the
unwavering love of woman.
From Alfred Tennyson — although in
perfect sincerity
I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived — I have left myself
time
to cite only a very brief specimen. I call him, and think him
the
noblest of poets — not because the impressions he produces
are,
at all times,
the most profound — not because the poetical excitement which
he
induces is, at all times, the most intense — but because it is,
at
all times, the most ethereal — in other words, the most elevating and
most
pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to
read
is from his last long poem, "The Princess:"
Tears, idle
tears, I know
not what they
mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering
on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark
summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after
death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
|
Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect
manner,
I have endeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic
Principle.
It has been my purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is,
strictly and simply, the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the
manifestation
of the Principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the
Soul — quite
independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart — or
of that Truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For, in regard
to
Passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade, rather than to elevate the
Soul.
Love, on the contrary — Love — the true, the divine Eros — the Uranian,
as distinguished from the Dionæan Venus — is unquestionably the
purest
and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth — if, to be
sure,
through the attainment of a truth, we are led to perceive a harmony
where
none was apparent before, we experience, at once, the true poetical
effect —
but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least
degree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
We shall reach, however, more
immediately a distinct
conception of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of
the
simple elements which induce in the Poet himself the true poetical
effect He
recognizes
the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the bright orbs that shine in
Heaven — in the volutes of the flower — in the clustering of low
shrubberies
— in the waving of the grain-fields — in the slanting of tall, Eastern
trees
— in the blue distance of mountains — in the grouping of clouds — in
the
twinkling of half-hidden brooks — in the gleaming of silver rivers — in
the repose of sequestered lakes — in the star-mirroring depths of
lonely
wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds — in the harp of
Æolus —
in
the sighing of the night-wind — in the repining voice of the forest —
in
the surf that complains to the shore — in the fresh breath of the woods
— in the scent of the violet — in the voluptuous perfume of the
hyacinth
— in the suggestive odor that comes to him, at eventide, from
far-distant,
undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He
owns
it in all noble thoughts — in all unworldly motives — in all holy
impulses
— in all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it
in the beauty of woman — in the grace of her step — in the lustre of
her
eye — in the melody of her voice — in her soft laughter — in her sigh —
in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her
winning endearments — in her burning enthusiasms — in her gentle
charities
— in her meek and devotional endurances — but above all — ah, far above
all — he kneels to it — he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in
the
strength, in the altogether divine majesty — of her love.
Let me conclude — by the recitation
of yet another
brief poem — one very different in character from any that I have
before
quoted. It is by Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier."
With our modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and
impiety
of warfare, we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to
sympathize with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real
excellence
of the poem. To do this fully, we must identify ourselves, in fancy,
with
the soul of the old cavalier.
Then mounte! then mounte, brave
gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine:
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe.
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand, —
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight.
And hero-like to die ! |
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