Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

ROBERT POLLOK.

THIS poet was born of parents in humble circumstances at Eaglesham, in Ayrshire, in 1799. He was educated at the University of Glasgow, and in 1827 took orders in the Scottish Secession Church. In the same year he published The Course of Time, and, on account of impaired health, left Scotland with an intention to proceed to Italy, but died, on his way, at Southampton, on the fifteenth of September.

heavenward; a bard, once of our earth, sings the story of humanity, from the beginning until time is finished,

- the righteous saved, the wicked damned, And God's eternal government approved. The subject is a noble one, and in the poem there are graphic conceptions and passages of beauty and tenderness; but it is disfigured by amplifications and a redundancy of moral pictures; it has no continuous interest, and in parts of it which should have been and which the author endeavoured to make the most im

jects himself to a comparison with DANTE and MILTON, he utterly failed.

The Course of Time was written during his student life, and when, unfriended and unknown, he offered it to the publishers of Edin-pressive, particularly those in which he subburgh, none of them were willing to bring it out. The manuscript was fortunately seen by Professor WILSON, who quickly perceived its merits, and effected an arrangement between the poet and Messrs. Blackwood, which resulted in its publication. The plot of the poem is very simple: The events of time are finished, and a being from some remote world arrives in Paradise, where he inquires the meaning of the hell he has seen on his way

BYRON.

ADMIRE the goodness of Almighty God!
He riches gave, he intellectual strength,
To few, and therefore none commands to be
Or rich, or learn'd; nor promises reward
Of peace to these. On all, He moral worth
Bestow'd, and moral tribute ask'd from all.
And who that could not pay? who born so poor,
Of intellect so mean, as not to know
What seem'd the best; and, knowing, might not do?
As not to know what God and conscience bade,
And what they bade not able to obey?
And he, who acted thus, fulfill'd the law
Eternal, and its promise reaped of peace;
Found peace this way alone: who sought it else,
Sought mellow grapes beneath the icy pole,
Sought blooming roses on the cheek of death,
Sought substance in a world of fleeting shades.
Take one example, to our purpose quite,
A man of rank, and of capacious soul,
Who riches had and fame, beyond desire,
An heir of flattery, to titles born,
And reputation, and luxurious life;
Yet, not content with ancestorial name,
Or to be known because his fathers were,
He on this height hereditary stood,
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart

The Course of Time has been almost universally read. I have been informed that not less than twenty editions of it have been sold in the United States, and it has been frequently reprinted in Scotland. For its popu larity, however, both here and in Great Britain, it is more indebted to its theology than to its merits as a poem.

To take another step. Above him seem'd,
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; and thitherward,
By nature taught, and inward melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye. [read;
No cost was spared. What books he wish'd, he
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days
Britannia's mountain-walks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul
With grandeur fill'd, and melody, and love.
Then travel came, and took him where he wish'd.
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp;
And mused alone on ancient mountain-brows;
And mused on battle-fields, where valour fought
In other days; and mused on ruins gray
With years; and drank from old and fabulous wells,
And pluck'd the vine that first-born prophets pluck'd,
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave
Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste;
The heavens and earth of every country saw.
Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt,
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.

He touch'd his harp, and nations heard, entranced,
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flow'd,

[blocks in formation]

And open'd new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose,
And soar'd untrodden heights, and seem'd at home
Where angels bashful look'd. Others, though great,
Beneath their argument seem'd struggling whiles;
He from above descending stoop'd to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stoop'd, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
He seem'd an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And play'd familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talk'd, as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seem'd;
Then turn'd, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains,meteors,seas and winds and storms
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deem'd. All passions of all men,
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;
All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man;
He toss'd about, as tempest, wither'd leaves,
Then, smiling, look'd upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;
But back into his soul retired, alone,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So ocean from the plains his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seem'd to mock the ruin he had wrought.
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence, as it pass'd,
So he through learning and through fancy took
His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top
Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soil'd and worn,
As if he from the earth had labour'd up;
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,
He look'd, which down from higher regions came,
And perch'd it there, to see what lay beneath.
The nations gazed, and wonder'd much, and prais'd.
Critics before him fell in humble plight,
Confounded fell, and made debasing signs [selves
To catch his eye, and stretch'd, and swell'd them-
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words
Of admiration vast: and many, too,
Many that aim'd to imitate his flight,
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,
And gave abundant sport to after days.

[much,

Great man! the nations gazed, and wonder'd And praised; and many call'd his evil good. Wits wrote in favour of his wickedness, And kings to do him honour took delight.

Thus, full of titles, flattery, honour, fame,

Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full,

He died. He died of what? Of wretchedness;—
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump
Of fame, drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts
That common millions might have quench'd; then
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. [died
His goddess, Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoy'd,
Fell from his arms, abhorr'd; his passions died,
Died, all but dreary, solitary pride;
And all his sympathies in being died.
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall,
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore,
And then, retiring, left it there to rot
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven;
So he, cut from the sympathies of life,
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge,
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing,
Scorch'd, and desolate, and blasted soul,
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought,—
Repined, and groan'd, and wither'd from the earth.
His groanings fill'd the land, his numbers fill'd;
And yet he seem'd ashamed to groan: Poor man!—
Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help.

Proof this, beyond all lingering of doubt,
That not with natural or mental wealth
Was God delighted, or his peace secured;
That not in natural or mental wealth
Was human happiness or grandeur found.
Attempt, how monstrous, and how surely vain!
With things of earthly sort, with aught but God,
With aught but moral excellence, truth, and love
To satisfy and fill the immortal soul!
Attempt, vain inconceivably! attempt,
To satisfy the ocean with a drop,
To marry immortality to death,

And with the unsubstantial shade of time,
To fill the embrace of all eternity!

THE MILLENNIUM.

THE animals, as once in Eden, lived In peace. The wolf dwelt with the lamb, the bear And leopard with the ox. With looks of love, The tiger and the scaly crocodile Together met, at Gambia's palmy wave. Perch'd on the eagle's wing, the bird of song, Singing, arose, and visited the sun; And with the falcon sat the gentle lark. The little child leap'd from his mother's arms And stroked the crested snake, and roll'd unhurt Among his speckled waves, and wish'd him home; And sauntering school-boys, slow returning, play'd At eve about the lion's den, and wove, Into his shaggy mane, fantastic flowers. To meet the husbandman, early abroad, Hasted the deer, and waved its woody head; And round his dewy steps, the hare, unscared, Sported, and toy'd familiar with his dog. The flocks and herds, o'er hill and valley spread, Exulting, cropp'd the ever-budding herb, The desert blossom'd, and the barren sung. Justice and Mercy, Holiness and Love, Among the people walk'd, Messiah reign'd, And earth kept jubilee a thousand years.

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIM

SELF.

In humble dwelling born, retired, remote;
In rural quietude, 'mong hills, and streams,
And melancholy deserts, where the sun
Saw, as he pass'd, a shepherd, only, here
And there, watching his little flock, or heard
The ploughman talking to his steers; his hopes,
His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling,
Among the dews and holy mountain airs;
And fancy colour'd them with every hue
Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams
Of childhood fled away, those rainbow dreams,
So innocent and fair, that wither'd age,
Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye,
And passing all between, look'd fondly back
To see them once again, ere he departed:
These fled away, and anxious thought, that wish'd
To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
Possess'd his soul, and held it still awhile.
He listen'd, and heard from far the voice of fame,
Heard and was charm'd; and deep and sudden vow
Of resolution made to be renown'd;

And deeper vow'd again to keep his vow.
His parents saw, his parents whom God made
Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope.
The ancient page he turn'd, read much, thought
much,

And with old bards of honourable name
Measured his soul severely; and look'd up
To fame, ambitious of no second place.
Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair.
And out before him open'd many a path
Ascending, where the laurel highest waved
Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring;
But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized,
The harp he loved, loved better than his life,
The harp which utter'd deepest notes, and held
The ear of thought a captive to its song.
He search'd and meditated much, and whiles,
With rapturous hand, in secret touch'd the lyre,
Aiming at glorious strains; and search'd again
For theme deserving of immortal verse;
Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied;
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still.

Thus stood his mind, when round him came a
cloud,

Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud

Of ills we mention not: enough to say,
"Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom.
He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes,
One after one, put out, as nearer still
It drew his soul; but fainted not at first,
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst;
Endure whate'er should come, without a sigh
Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs,
The bitterest cup that time could measure out;
And, having done, look up, and ask for more.

He call'd philosophy, and with his heart
Reason'd. He call'd religion, too, but call'd
Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard.
Ashamed to be o'ermatch'd by earthly woes,
He sought, and sought with eye that dimm'd apace,

To find some avenue to light, some place
On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain.
Darker and darker still the darkness grew.
At length he sunk, and disappointment stood
His only comforter, and mournfully
Told all was past. His interest in life,
In being, ceased: and now he seem'd to feel,
And shudder'd as he felt, his powers of mind
Decaying in the spring-time of his day.
The vigorous, weak became; the clear, obscure;
Memory gave up her charge; Decision reel'd;
And from her flight, Fancy return'd, return'd
Because she found no nourishment abroad.
The blue heavens wither'd, and the moon, and sun,
And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn
And evening, wither'd; and the eyes, and smiles,
And faces of all men and women, wither'd,
Wither'd to him; and all the universe,
Like something which had been, appear'd, but now
Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried
No more to hope, wish'd to forget his vow,
Wish'd to forget his harp; then ceased to wish
That was his last: enjoyment now was done.
He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear.
Of being sensible, and sensible

Of loss, he as some atom seem'd, which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not
To build creation with; but back again
To nothing threw, and left it in the void,
With everlasting sense that once it was.

Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent,
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless wo!
And who can tell how many, glorious once,
To others and themselves of promise full,
Conducted to this pass of human thought,
This wilderness of intellectual death,
Wasted and pined, and vanish'd from the earth,
Leaving no vestige of memorial there!

It was not so with him. When thus he lay,
Forlorn of heart, wither'd and desolate,
As leaf of autumn, which the wolfish winds,
Selecting from its falling sisters, chase,
Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes,
And leave it there alone, to be forgotten
Eternally, God pass'd in mercy by-

His praise be ever new!-and on him breathed,
And bade him live, and put into his hands
A holy harp, into his lips a song,

That roll'd its numbers down the tide of time:
Ambitious now, but little to be praised
Of men alone; ambitious most, to be
Approved of God, the Judge of all; and have
His name recorded in the book of life.

Such things were disappointment and remorse;
And oft united both, as friends severe,
To teach men wisdom; but the fool, untaught,
Was foolish still. His ear he stopp'd, his eyes
He shut, and blindly, deafly obstinate,
Forced desperately his way from wo to wo.

One place, one only place, there was on earth, Where no man e'er was fool, however mad. "Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die." Ah! 'twas a truth most true; and sung in time, And to the sons of men, by one well known On earth for lofty verse and lofty sense.

REPUTATION.

GOOD name was dear to all. Without it, none
Could soundly sleep, even on a royal bed,
Or drink with relish from a cup of gold;
And with it, on his borrow'd straw, or by
The leafless hedge, beneath the open heavens,
The weary beggar took untroubled rest.
It was a music of most heavenly tone,
To which the heart leap'd joyfully, and all
The spirits danced. For honest fame, men laid
Their heads upon the block, and, while the axe
Descended, look'd and smiled. It was of price
Invaluable. Riches, health, repose,

Whole kingdoms, life, were given for it, and he
Who got it was the winner still; and he
Who sold it durst not open his ear, nor look
On human face, he knew himself so vile.

RUMOUR AND SLANDER.

RUMOUR was the messenger Of defamation, and so swift that none Could be the first to tell an evil tale; And was, withal, so infamous for lies, That he who of her sayings, on his creed, The fewest enter'd, was deem'd wisest man. The fool, and many who had credit, too, For wisdom, grossly swallow'd all she said, Unsifted; and although, at every word, They heard her contradict herself, and saw Hourly they were imposed upon and mock'd, Yet still they ran to hear her speak, and stared, And wonder'd much, and stood aghast, and said It could not be; and, while they blush'd for shame At their own faith, and seem'd to doubt, believed, And whom they met, with many sanctions, told. So did experience fail to teach;—so hard It was to learn this simple truth,-confirm'd At every corner by a thousand proofs,— That common fame most impudently lied. "Twas slander fill'd her mouth with lying words, Slander, the foulest whelp of sin. The man In whom this spirit enter'd was undone. His tongue was set on fire of hell, his heart Was black as death, his legs were faint with haste To propagate the lie his soul had framed, His pillow was the peace of families Destroy'd, the sigh of innocence reproach'd, Broken friendships, and the strife of brotherhoods, Yet did he spare his sleep, and hear the clock Number the midnight watches, on his bed, Devising mischief more; and early rose, And made most hellish meals of good men's names. From door to door you might have seen him speed, Or placed amidst a group of gaping fools, And whispering in their ears with his foul lips. Peace fled the neighbourhood in which he made His haunts; and, like a moral pestilence, Before his breath the healthy shoots and blooms Of social joy and happiness decay'd.

Fools only in his company were seen,

And those forsaken of God, and to themselves
Given up. The prudent shunn'd him and his house
As one who had a deadly moral plague.
And fain would all have shunn'd him at the day
Of judgment; but in vain. All who gave ear
With greediness, or wittingly their tongues
Made herald to his lies, around him wail'd;
While on his face, thrown back by injured men,
In characters of ever-blushing shame,
Appear'd ten thousand slanders, all his own.

WISDOM.

WISDOM is humble, said the voice of God. 'Tis proud, the world replied. Wisdom, said God, Forgives, forbears, and suffers, not for fear Of man, but God. Wisdom revenges, said The world, is quick and deadly of resentment, Thrusts at the very shadow of affront, And hastes, by death, to wipe its honour clean. Wisdom, said God, loves enemies, entreats, Solicits, begs for peace. Wisdom, replied The world, hates enemies, will not ask peace, Conditions spurns, and triumphs in their fall. Wisdom mistrusts itself, and leans on heaven, Said God. It trusts and leans upon itself, The world replied. Wisdom retires, said God, And counts it bravery to bear reproach, And shame, and lowly poverty, upright; And weeps with all who have just cause to weep. Wisdom, replied the world, struts forth to gaze, Treads the broad stage of life with clamorous foot, Attracts all praises, counts it bravery Alone to wield the sword, and rush on death; And never weeps, but for its own disgrace. Wisdom, said God, is highest, when it stoops Lowest before the Holy Throne; throws down Its crown, abased; forgets itself, admires, And breathes adoring praise. There wisdom stoops, Indeed, the world replied, there stoops, because It must, but stoops with dignity; and thinks And meditates the while of inward worth.

Thus did Almighty God, and thus the world, Wisdom define: and most the world believed, And boldly call'd the truth of God a lie. Hence, he that to the worldly wisdom shaped His character, became the favourite Of men, was honourable term'd, a man Of spirit, noble, glorious, lofty soul! And as he cross'd the earth in chase of dreams, Received prodigious shouts of warm applause. Hence, who to godly wisdom framed his life, Was counted mean, and spiritless, and vile; And as he walk'd obscurely in the path [tongue, Which led to heaven, fools hiss'd with serpent And pour'd contempt upon his holy head, And pour'd contempt on all who praised his name. But false as this account of wisdom was, The world's I mean, it was his best, the creed Of sober, grave, and philosophic men, With much research and cogitation framed, Of men who with the vulgar scorn'd to sit.

T. B. MACAULAY.

wwwww

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY is the son of ZACHARY MACAULAY, principally distinguished as a philanthropist, and as the coadjutor of CLARKSON in the cause of Anti-slavery. He was educated at CAMBRIDGE, and graduated with the highest honours. While at college he was a contributor to "Knight's Quarterly Magazine," and many of his best ballads were first published in that periodical. He chose the law for his profession. In 1825 his celebrated article on MILTON appeared in the "Edinburgh Review," and excited much attention and panegyric. This was the first of a series of papers which have been continued at intervals to the present day, all displaying strong peculiarities of character, analytical acuteness, a vast range of knowledge, considerable dialectical skill, great independence and affluence of thought, and much splendour, energy, and eloquence of diction. He soon after entered political life, was elected to parliament, and became one of the sturdiest, most eloquent, and most efficient of the supporters of the Reform Bill in the House of Commons. His various speeches, from 1831 to 1844, as reported in "Hansard's Parliamentary Debates," are characterized by

nearly the same qualities of manner which distinguish his written compositions, though pervaded often by even more directness, intensity, fire, and intellectual hardihood. They are not included in the collection of his miscellaneous writings. On the triumph of his party he was sent on a lucrative commission to India. He was Secretary at War under Lord MELBOURNE's administration, but, of course, shared in the defeat of the Whigs. He is said to be now engaged on an historical work, which will try the whole power and resources of his mind.

As a poet, MACAULAY displays the same vehemence and energy, the same rush of style, which have conferred such popularity on his prose. His earliest efforts in the ballad-style are probably his best, though his "Lays of Ancient Rome" are thought to exhibit more true imagination than he has shown in any of his preceding works. The sparkle and glow of his verse always take strong hold upon the sensibility and fancy, and of all writers, he is the last who could be accused of tediousness. The extracts we give will better illustrate his manner than the most laboured analysis.

HORATIUS.

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCLX.

LARS PORSENA of Clusium

By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it,

And named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west, and south and north,
To summon his array.

East and west, and south and north
The messengers ride fast,
And tower, and town, and cottage

Have heard the trumpet's blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan

Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome.

The horsemen and the footmen
Are pouring in amain

From many a stately market-place;
From many a fruitful plain;

From many a lonely hamlet,

Which, hid by beech and pine,

Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest

Of purple Appennine;

From lordly Volaterra,

Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants

For godlike kings of old; From seagirt Populonia,

Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky; From the proud mart of Pisa, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes Heavy with fair-hair'd slaves;

« ZurückWeiter »