Read Ebook: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Vol 58 No. 357 July 1845 by Various

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Ebook has 444 lines and 86133 words, and 9 pages

The worship of the Muse no care beseems; The Beautiful is calm, and high, and holy; Youth is a cunning counsellor--of folly!-- Lulling our sense with vain and empty dreams.... Upon the past we gaze--the same, yet other-- And find no trace.--We wake, alas! too late. Was it not so with us, D?lvig, my brother?-- My brother in our Muse as in our fate!

'Tis time, 'tis time! Let us once more be free! The world's not worth this torturing resistance! Beneath retirement's shade will glide existence-- Thee, my belated friend--I wait for thee! Come! with the flame of an enchanted story Tradition's lore shall wake, our hearts to move; We'll talk of Caucasus, of war, of glory, Of Schiller, and of genius, and of love.

'Tis time no less for me ... Friends, feast amain! Behold, a joyful meeting is before us; Think of the poet's prophecy; for o'er us A year shall pass, and we shall meet again! My vision's covenant shall have fulfilling; A year--and I shall be with ye once more! Oh, then, what shouts, what hand-grasps warm and thrilling! What goblets skyward heaved with merry roar!

Unto our Union consecrated be The first we drain--fill higher yet, and higher! Bless it, O Muse, in strains of raptured fire! Bless it! All hail, Lyceum! hail to thee!-- To those who led our youth with care and praises, Living and dead! the next we grateful fill; Let each, as to his lips the cup he raises, The good remember, and forget the ill.

Unhappy friend! Amid a stranger race, Like guest intrusive, that superfluous lingers, He'll think of us that day, with quivering fingers Hiding the tears that wet his wrinkled face.... O, may he then at least, in mournful gladness, Pass with his cup this day for ever dear, As even I, in exile and in sadness, Yet with a fleeting joy, have pass'd it here!

CAUCASUS.

Beneath me the peaks of the Caucasus lie, My gaze from the snow-bordered cliff I am bending; From her sun-lighted eyry the Eagle ascending Floats movelessly on in a line with mine eye. I see the young torrent's first leap towards the ocean, And the cliff-cradled lawine essay its first motion.

Beneath me the clouds in their silentness go, The cataract through them in thunder down-dashing, Far beneath them bare peaks in the sunny ray flashing, Weak moss and dry shrubs I can mark yet below. Dark thickets still lower--green meadows are blooming, Where the throstle is singing, and reindeer are roaming.

Here man, too, has nested his hut, and the flocks On the long grassy slopes in their quiet are feeding, And down to the valley the shepherd is speeding, Where Ar?gva gleams out from her wood-crested rocks. And there in his crags the poor robber is hiding, And T?rek in anger is wrestling and chiding.

Like a fierce young Wild Beast, how he bellows and raves, Like that Beast from his cage when his prey he espieth; 'Gainst the bank, like a Wrestler, he struggleth and plyeth, And licks at the rock with his ravening waves. In vain, thou wild River! dumb cliffs are around thee, And sternly and grimly their bondage hath bound thee.

To those who measure the value of a poem, less by the pretension and ambitiousness of its form, than by the completeness of its execution and the skill with which the leading idea is developed, we think that the graceful little production which we are now about to present to the reader, will possess very considerable interest. It is, it is true, no more important a thing than a mere song; but the naturalness and unity of the fundamental thought, and the happy employment of what is undoubtedly one of the most effective artifices at the command of the lyric writer--we mean repetition--render the following lines worthy of the universal admiration which they have obtained in the original, and may not be devoid of charm in the translation:--

Yes! I remember well our meeting, When first thou dawnedst on my sight, Like some fair phantom past me fleeting, Some nymph of purity and light.

Years flew; Fate's blast blew ever stronger, Scattering mine early dreams to air, And thy soft voice I heard no longer-- No longer saw thy features fair.

In exile's silent desolation Slowly dragg'd on the days for me-- Orphan'd of life, of inspiration, Of tears, of love, of deity.

I woke--once more my heart was beating-- Once more thou dawnedst on my sight, Like some fair phantom past me fleeting, Some nymph of purity and light.

My heart has found its consolation-- All has revived once more for me-- And vanish'd life, and inspiration, And tears, and love, and deity.

THE MOB.

"Procul este, profani!"

A Poet o'er his glowing lyre A wild and careless hand had flung. The base, cold crowd, that nought admire, Stood round, responseless to his fire, With heavy eye and mocking tongue.

"And why so loudly is he singing?" "His music in our ears is ringing; But whither flows that music's tide? What doth it teach? His art is madness! He moves our soul to joy or sadness. A wayward necromantic spell! Free as the breeze his music floweth, But fruitless, too, as breeze that bloweth, What doth it profit, Poet, tell?"

MOB.--But, if thou be'st the Elect of Heaven, The gift that God has largely given, Thou shouldst then for our good impart, To purify thy brother's heart. Yes, we are base, and vile, and hateful, Cruel, and shameless, and ungrateful-- Impotent and heartless tools, Slaves, and slanderers, and fools. Come then, if charity doth sway thee, Chase from our hearts the viper-brood; However stern, we will obey thee; Yes, we will listen, and be good!

The ballad entitled "The Black Shawl" has obtained a degree of popularity among the author's countrymen, for which the slightness of the composition renders it in some measure difficult to account. It may, perhaps, be explained by the circumstance, that the verses are in the original exceedingly well adapted to be sung--one of the highest merits of this class of poetry--for all ancient ballads, in every language throughout the world, were specifically intended to be sung or chanted; and all modern productions, therefore, written in imitation of these ancient compositions--the first lispings of the Muse--can only be successful in proportion as they possess the essential and characteristic quality of being capable of being sung. Independently of the highly musical arrangement of the rhythm, which, in the original, distinguishes "The Black Shawl," the following verses cannot be denied the merit of relating, in a few rapid and energetic measures, a simple and striking story of Oriental love, vengeance, and remorse:--

THE BLACK SHAWL.

Like a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl; Remorse, fear, and anguish--this heart knows them all.

When believing and fond, in the spring-time of youth, I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.

That fair one caress'd me--my life! oh, 'twas bright, But it set--that fair day--in a hurricane night.

One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew, When sudden there knock'd at my gate a vile Jew.

I cursed him, and gave him good guerdon of gold, And call'd me a slave that was trusty and bold.

"Ho! my charger--my charger!" we mount, we depart, And soft pity whisper'd in vain at my heart.

On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood-- I was faint--and the sun seem'd as darken'd with blood:

The light darken'd round me--then flash'd my good blade.... The minion ne'er finish'd the kiss that betray'd.

On the corse of the minion in fury I danced, Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.

I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream.... Thus perish'd the maiden--thus perish'd my dream.

This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore-- On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.

The mists of the evening arose, and my slave Hurl'd the corses of both in the Danube's dark wave.

Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light-- Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.

Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl; Remorse, fear, and anguish--this heart knows them all!

The pretty lines which we are now about to offer, are rather remarkable as being written in the manner of the ancient national songs of Russia, than for any thing very new in the ideas, or very striking in the expression. They possess, however--at least in the original--a certain charm arising from simplicity and grace.

THE ROSE.

Where is our rose, friends? Tell if ye may! Faded the rose, friends, The Dawn-child of Day. Ah, do not say, Such is youth's fleetness! Ah, do not say, Thus fades life's sweetness! No, rather say, I mourn thee, rose--farewell! Now to the lily-bell Flit we away.

Among the thousand-and-one compositions, in all languages, founded upon the sublime theme of the downfall and death of Napoleon, there are, we think, very few which have surpassed, in weight of thought, in splendour of diction, and in grandeur of versification, P?shkin's noble lyric upon this subject. The mighty share which Russia had in overthrowing the gigantic power of the greatest of modern conquerors, could not fail of affording to a Russian poet a peculiar source of triumphant yet not too exulting inspiration; and P?shkin, in that portion of the following ode in which he is led more particularly to allude to the part played by his country in the sublime drama, whose catastrophe was the ruin of Bonaparte's blood-cemented empire, has given undeniable proof of his possessing that union of magnanimity and patriotism, which is not the meanest characteristic of elevated genius. While the poet gives full way to the triumphant feelings so naturally inspired by the exploits of Russian valour, and by the patient fortitude of Russian policy, he wisely and nobly abstains on indulging in any of those outbursts of gratified revenge and national hatred which deform the pages of almost all--poets, and even historians--who have written on this colossal subject.

NAPOLEON.

The wondrous destiny is ended, The mighty light is quench'd and dead; In storm and darkness hath descended Napoleon's sun, so bright and dread. The captive King hath burst his prison-- The petted child of Victory; And for the Exile hath arisen The dawning of Posterity.

O thou, of whose immortal story Earth aye the memory shall keep, Now, 'neath the shadow of thy glory Rest, rest, amid the lonely deep! A grave sublime ... nor nobler ever Couldst thou have found ... for o'er thine urn The Nations' hate is quench'd for ever, And Glory's beacon-ray shall burn.

There was a time thine eagles tower'd Resistless o'er the humbled world; There was a time the empires cower'd Before the bolt thy hand had hurl'd: The standards, thy proud will obeying, Flapp'd wrath and woe on every wind-- A few short years, and thou wert laying Thine iron yoke on human kind.

And France, on glories vain and hollow, Had fixed her frenzy-glance of flame-- Forgot sublimer hopes, to follow Thee, Conqueror, thee--her dazzling shame! Thy legions' swords with blood were drunken-- All sank before thine echoing tread; And Europe fell--for sleep was sunken, The sleep of death--upon her head.

Thou mightst have judged us, but thou wouldst not! What dimm'd thy reason's piercing light, That Russian hearts thou understoodst not, From thine heroic spirit's height? Moscow's immortal conflagration Foreseeing not, thou deem'dst that we Would kneel for peace, a conquer'd nation-- Thou knew'st the Russ ... too late for thee!

Up, Russia! Queen of hundred battles, Remember now thine ancient right!

Blaze, Moscow!--Far shall shine thy light! Lo! other times are dawning o'er us: Be blotted out, our short disgrace! Swell, Russia, swell the battle chorus! War! is the watchword of our race!

Lo! how the baffled leader seizeth, With fetter'd hands, his Iron Crown-- A dread abyss his spirit freezeth! Down, down he goes, to ruin down! And Europe's armaments are driven, Like mist, along the blood-stain'd snow-- That snow shall melt 'neath summer's heaven, With the last footstep of the foe.

'Twas a wild storm of fear and wonder, When Europe woke and burst her chain; The accursed race, like scatter'd thunder, After the tyrant fled amain. And Nemesis a doom hath spoken, The Mighty hears that doom with dread: The wrongs thou'st done shall now be wroken, Tyrant, upon thy guilty head!

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