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Read Ebook: On the Architectural History of Chester Cathedral by Rickman Thomas Blomfield George Becher Contributor
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BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
FORMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER. BY SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER.
PART THE LAST.
We here close our attempts to convey to the English reader some notion, however inadequate, of the genius and mind of Schiller. It is in these Poems, rather, perhaps, than in his Dramas and Prose works, that the upright earnestness of the mind, and the rich variety of the genius, are best displayed. Here, certainly, can best be seen that peculiar union of intellect and imagination which Mr Carlyle has so well distinguished as Schiller's characteristic attribute, and in which it would be difficult to name the modern poet by whom he is surpassed; and here the variety of the genius is least restrained and limited by the earnestness of the mind. For Schiller's variety is not that of Shakspeare, a creative and universal spirit, passing with the breath of life into characters the most diverse, and unidentified with the creations its invisible agency invokes. But it is the variety of one in whom the consciousness of his own existence is never laid aside; shown not so much in baring the minds and hearts of others, as in developing the progress and the struggles of his own, in the infinite gradations of joy and of sorrow, of exquisite feeling and solemn thought. Hence, in the drama, arise his faults and deficiencies; in his characters, he himself speaks. They are gigantic images of his own moods at different epochs of his life--impassioned with Moor--philosophizing with Posa--stately, tranquil, and sad, with Wallenstein. But as, in his dramas, this intense perception of self--this earnest, haunting consciousness--this feeling of genius as a burden, and of life as a religion--interferes with true dramatic versatility; so, on the contrary, these qualities give variety in his poems to the expositions of a mind always varying, always growing--always eager to think, and sensitive to feel. And his art loved to luxuriate in all that copious fertility of materials which the industry of a scholar submitted to the mastery of a poet; to turn to divine song whatever had charmed the study or aroused the thought: philosophy, history, the dogma, or the legend, all repose in the memory to bloom in the verse. The surface of knowledge apparent in his poems is immense; and this alone suffices to secure variety in thought. But the aspiring and ardent nature of his intellect made him love to attempt also constant experiments in the theme and in the style. The romantic ballad, the classical tale, the lyric, the didactic, the epigrammatic--the wealth of his music comprehended every note, the boldness of his temper adventured every hazard. Yet still, some favourite ideas take possession of him so forcibly, as to be frequently repeated as important truths. The sacred and majestic office of the poet--the beauty of ideal life, --the worship of Virtue and the Beautiful, for their own sake, and without hope of reward;--these, and many ideas minor to, and proceeding from them, revisit us in a thousand tones of eloquent and haunting music.
E. LYTTON BULWER.
SECOND PERIOD.
And it is peculiarly noticeable, that, whatever Schiller's state of mind upon theological subjects at the time that this hymn was composed, and though all doctrinal stamp and mark be carefully absent from it, it is yet a poem that never could have been written but in a Christian age, in a Christian land--but by a man whose whole soul and heart had been at one time inspired and suffused with that firm belief in God's goodness and His justice--that full assurance of rewards beyond the grave--that exulting and seraphic cheerfulness which associates joy with the Creator--and that animated affection for the Brotherhood of Mankind, which Christianity--and Christianity alone, in its pure, orthodox, gospel form, needing no aid from schoolman or philosopher--taught and teaches. Would, for objects higher than the praise which the ingenuity of labour desires and strives for--would that some faint traces of the splendour which invests the original, could attend the passage of thoughts so noble and so tender, from the verse of a poet to the rhyme of a translator!
HYMN TO JOY.
Spark from the fire that Gods have fed-- JOY--thou Elysian Child divine, Fire-drunk, our airy footsteps tread, O Holy One! thy holy shrine. The heart that Custom from the other Divides, thy charms again unite, And man in man but hails a brother, Wherever rest thy wings of light.
He who this lot from fate can grasp-- Of one true friend the friend to be,-- He who one faithful maid can clasp, Shall hold with us his jubilee; Yes, each who but one single heart In all the earth can claim his own!-- Let him who cannot, stand apart, And weep beyond the pale, alone!
All being drinks the mother-dew Of joy from Nature's holy bosom; And Vice and Worth her steps pursue-- We trace them by the blossom. Hers Love's sweet kiss--the grape's rich treasure, That cheers Life on to Death's abode; Joy in each link--the worm has pleasure, The Cherub has the smile of God!
Joy is the mainspring in the whole Of endless Nature's calm rotation; Joy moves the dazzling wheels that roll In the great Timepiece of Creation; Joy breathes on buds, and flowers they are; Joy beckons--suns come forth from heaven; Joy rolls the spheres in realms afar, Ne'er to thy glass, dim Wisdom, given!
Joy, from Truth's pure and lambent fires, Smiles out upon the ardent seeker; Joy leads to Virtue Man's desires, And cheers as Suffering's step grows weaker. High from the sunny slopes of Faith, The gales her waving banners buoy; And through the shattered vaults of Death, Springs to the choral Angels-Joy!
Man never can the gods requite; How fair alike to gods to be! Where want and woe shall melt in light That plays round Bliss eternally! Revenge and Hatred both forgot; No foe, the deadliest, unforgiven; With smiles that tears can neighbour not; No path can lead Regret to Heaven!
Joy sparkles to us from the bowl-- Behold the juice whose golden colour To meekness melts the savage soul, And gives Despair a Hero's valour. Up, brothers!--Lo, we crown the cup! Lo, the wine flashes to the brim! Let the bright Fount spring heavenward!--Up! To THE GOOD SPIRIT this glass!--To HIM!
Strong-hearted Hope to Sorrow's sloth; Swift aid to guiltless Woe; Eternity to plighted Troth; Truth just to Friend and Foe; Proud men before the throne to stand; Good fortune to the Honest, and Confusion to the Lying!
THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA.
She comes, she comes--the Burthen of the Deeps! Beneath her wails the Universal Sea! With clanking chains and a new God, she sweeps, And with a thousand thunders, unto thee! The ocean-castles and the floating hosts-- Ne'er on their like, look'd the wild waters!--Well May man the monster name "Invincible." O'er shudd'ring waves she gathers to thy coasts! The horror that she spreads can claim Just title to her haughty name. The trembling Neptune quails Under the silent and majestic forms; The Doom of Worlds in those dark sails;-- Near and more near they sweep! and slumber all the Storms
THE CONFLICT.
No! I this conflict longer will not wage, The conflict Duty claims--the giant task;-- Thy spells, O Virtue, never can assuage The heart's wild fire--this offering do not ask!
True, I have sworn--a solemn vow have sworn, That I myself will curb the self within; Yet take thy wreath, no more it shall be worn-- Take back thy wreath, and leave me free to sin.
Rent be the contract I with thee once made;-- She loves me, loves me--forfeit be thy crown! Blest he who, lull'd in rapture's dreamy shade, Glides, as I glide, the deep fall gladly down.
She sees the worm that my youth's bloom decays, She sees my springtime wasted as it flees; And, marv'ling at the rigour that gainsays The heart's sweet impulse, my reward decrees.
Thee--the dear guilt I ever seek to shun, O tyranny of fate, O wild desires! My virtue's only crown can but be won In that last breath--when virtue's self expires!
RESIGNATION.
And I, too, was amidst Arcadia born, And Nature seem'd to woo me; And to my cradle such sweet joys were sworn: And I, too, was amidst Arcadia born, Yet the short spring gave only tears unto me! Life but one blooming holiday can keep-- For me the bloom is fled; The silent Genius of the Darker Sleep Turns down my torch--and weep, my brethren, weep-- Weep, for the light is dead! Upon thy bridge the shadows round me press, O dread Eternity! And I have known no moment that can bless;-- Take back this letter meant for Happiness-- The seal's unbrokenen--see! Before thee, Judge, whose eyes the dark-spun veil Conceals, my murmur came; On this our orb a glad belief prevails, That, thine the earthly sceptre and the scales, REQUITER is thy name.
Terrors, they say, thou cost for Vice prepare, And joys the good shall know; Thou canst the crooked heart unmask and bare; Thou canst the riddle of our fate declare, And keep account with Woe. With thee a home smiles for the exiled one-- There ends the thorny strife. Unto my side a godlike vision won, Called TRUTH, And check'd the reins of life. "I will repay thee in a holier land-- Give thou to me thy youth; All I can grant thee lies in this command." I heard, and, trusting in a holier land, Gave my young joys to Truth.
THE GODS OF GREECE.
Ye in the age gone by, Who ruled the world--a world how lovely then!-- And guided still the steps of happy men In the light leading strings of careless joy! Ah, flourish'd them your service of delight! How different, oh, how different, in the day When thy sweet fanes with many a wreath were bright, O Venus Amathusia!
Then, through a veil of dreams Woven by Song, Truth's youthful beauty glow'd, And life's redundant and rejoicing streams Gave to the soulless, soul--where'er they flow'd. Man gifted Nature with divinity To lift and link her to the breast of Love; All things betray'd to the initiate eye The track of gods above!
Where lifeless--fix'd afar, A flaming ball to our dull sense is given, Phoebus Apollo, in his golden car, In silent glory swept the fields of heaven! On yonder hill the Oread was adored, In yonder tree the Dryad held her home; And from her Urn the gentle Naiad pour'd The wavelet's silver foam.
Yon bay, chaste Daphn? wreathed, Yon stone was mournful Niobe's mute cell, Low through yon sedges pastoral Syrinx breathed, And through those groves wail'd the sweet Philomel; The tears of Ceres swell'd in yonder rill-- Tears shed for Proserpine to Hades borne; And, for her lost Adonis, yonder hill Heard Cytherea mourn!--
Heaven's shapes were charm'd unto The mortal race of old Deucalion; Pyrrha's fair daughter, humanly to woo, Came down, in shepherd-guise, Latona's son. Between men, heroes, Gods, harmonious then Love wove sweet links and sympathies divine; Blest Amathusia, heroes, Gods, and men, Equals before thy shrine!
Not to that culture gay, Stern self-denial, or sharp penance wan! Well might each heart be happy in that day-- For Gods, the Happy Ones, were kin to Man! The Beautiful alone, the Holy there! No pleasure shamed the Gods of that young race; So that the chaste Camoenae favouring were, And the subduing Grace!
A palace every shrine; Your very sports heroic;--Yours the crown Of contests hallow'd to a power divine, As rush'd the chariots thund'ring to renown. Fair round the altar where the incense breathed, Moved your melodious dance inspired; and fair Above victorious brows, the garland wreathed Sweet leaves round odorous hair!
The lively Thyrsus-swinger, And the wild car the exulting Panthers bore, Announced the Presence of the Rapture-Bringer-- Bounded the Satyr and blithe Fawn before; And Maenads, as the frenzy stung the soul, Hymn'd, in their madding dance, the glorious wine-- As ever beckon'd to the lusty bowl The ruddy Host divine!
Before the bed of death No ghastly spectre stood--but from the porch Of life, the lip--one kiss inhaled the breath, And the mute graceful Genius lower'd a torch. The judgment-balance of the Realms below, A judge, himself of mortal lineage, held; The very Furies at the Thracian's woe, Were moved and music-spell'd.
In the Elysian grove The shades renew'd the pleasures life held dear: The faithful spouse rejoin'd remember'd love, And rush'd along the meads the charioteer; There Linus pour'd the old accustom'd strain; Admetus there Alcestes still could greet; his Friend there once more Orestes could regain, His arrows--Philoctetes!
More glorious then the meeds That in their strife with labour nerved the brave, To the great doer of renown?d deeds, The Hebe and the Heaven the Thunderer gave. To him the rescued Rescuer of the dead, Bow'd down the silent and Immortal Host; And the Twin Stars their guiding lustre shed, On the bark tempest-tost!
Art thou, fair world, no more? Return, thou virgin-bloom on Nature's face; Ah, only on the Minstrel's magic shore, Can we the footstep of sweet Fable trace! The meadows mourn for the old hallowing life; Vainly we search the earth of gods bereft; Where once the warm and living shapes were rife, Shadows alone are left!
Cold, from the North, has gone Over the Flowers the Blast that kill'd their May; And, to enrich the worship of the ONE, A Universe of Gods must pass away! Mourning, I search on yonder starry steeps, But thee no more, Selene, there I see! And through the woods I call, and o'er the deeps, And--Echo answers me!
Deaf to the joys she gives-- Blind to the pomp of which she is possest-- Unconscious of the spiritual Power that lives Around, and rules her--by our bliss unblest-- Dull to the Art that colours or creates, Like the dead timepiece, Godless NATURE creeps Her plodding round, and, by the leade
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