“So for one who loved him neverSlew he what had loved him well:Giannetta, silent ever,Feasted till the sunlight fell;”
“So for one who loved him neverSlew he what had loved him well:Giannetta, silent ever,Feasted till the sunlight fell;”
“So for one who loved him neverSlew he what had loved him well:Giannetta, silent ever,Feasted till the sunlight fell;”
“So for one who loved him never
Slew he what had loved him well:
Giannetta, silent ever,
Feasted till the sunlight fell;”
—thereby implying that the owner of the falcon was a brute, and his mistress a deliberategourmande, gloating over the trail! The story, even as told by the Florentine, has always seemed to us hideously unnatural. The man who could sacrifice, in cold blood, a dumb creature that loved him, would not hesitate, under temptation, to lay a sacrilegious hand on the weazand of his father; and we pray Mr Edwin Arnold to consider what kind of sympathy we should feel for Ulysses, if his first act, on his return to Ithaca, had been to drive his falchion into the heart of old Argus, who, for so many years, had been lying neglected at the gate, pining for his master’s return. Let us rather give a specimen or so of the better style of our youthful poet. We begin with the first poem.
“Oh! was there ever tale of human loveWhich was not also tale of human tears?Died not sweet Desdemona? Sorrowed notFair, patient Imogene? and she whose nameLives among lovers, Sappho silver-voiced,Was not the wailing of her passionate lyreEnded for ever in the dull, deaf sea?Must it be thus? Oh! must the cup that holdsThe sweetest vintage of the vine of lifeTaste bitter at the dregs? Is there no story,No legend, no love-passage, which shall veilEven as the bow which God hath bent in heavenO’er the sad waste of mortal histories,Promising respite to the rain of tears?”
“Oh! was there ever tale of human loveWhich was not also tale of human tears?Died not sweet Desdemona? Sorrowed notFair, patient Imogene? and she whose nameLives among lovers, Sappho silver-voiced,Was not the wailing of her passionate lyreEnded for ever in the dull, deaf sea?Must it be thus? Oh! must the cup that holdsThe sweetest vintage of the vine of lifeTaste bitter at the dregs? Is there no story,No legend, no love-passage, which shall veilEven as the bow which God hath bent in heavenO’er the sad waste of mortal histories,Promising respite to the rain of tears?”
“Oh! was there ever tale of human loveWhich was not also tale of human tears?Died not sweet Desdemona? Sorrowed notFair, patient Imogene? and she whose nameLives among lovers, Sappho silver-voiced,Was not the wailing of her passionate lyreEnded for ever in the dull, deaf sea?Must it be thus? Oh! must the cup that holdsThe sweetest vintage of the vine of lifeTaste bitter at the dregs? Is there no story,No legend, no love-passage, which shall veilEven as the bow which God hath bent in heavenO’er the sad waste of mortal histories,Promising respite to the rain of tears?”
“Oh! was there ever tale of human love
Which was not also tale of human tears?
Died not sweet Desdemona? Sorrowed not
Fair, patient Imogene? and she whose name
Lives among lovers, Sappho silver-voiced,
Was not the wailing of her passionate lyre
Ended for ever in the dull, deaf sea?
Must it be thus? Oh! must the cup that holds
The sweetest vintage of the vine of life
Taste bitter at the dregs? Is there no story,
No legend, no love-passage, which shall veil
Even as the bow which God hath bent in heaven
O’er the sad waste of mortal histories,
Promising respite to the rain of tears?”
A very pretty commencement to a pretty poem; the subject of which, however, must be considered as rather ticklish. It is curious that Edwin, as well as Matthew, has tried his hand at the painted window, which we wish he had not done, as the plagiary from Keats is evident:—
“They sleep: the spangled night is melting off,And still they sleep: the holy moon looks in,In at the painted window-panes, and flingsRuby, blue, purple, emerald, amethyst,Crystal and orange colours on their limbs;And round her face a glory of white light,As one that sins not; on the tapestriesGold lights are flashing like the wings of angels,Bringing these two hearts to be single-hearted.”
“They sleep: the spangled night is melting off,And still they sleep: the holy moon looks in,In at the painted window-panes, and flingsRuby, blue, purple, emerald, amethyst,Crystal and orange colours on their limbs;And round her face a glory of white light,As one that sins not; on the tapestriesGold lights are flashing like the wings of angels,Bringing these two hearts to be single-hearted.”
“They sleep: the spangled night is melting off,And still they sleep: the holy moon looks in,In at the painted window-panes, and flingsRuby, blue, purple, emerald, amethyst,Crystal and orange colours on their limbs;And round her face a glory of white light,As one that sins not; on the tapestriesGold lights are flashing like the wings of angels,Bringing these two hearts to be single-hearted.”
“They sleep: the spangled night is melting off,
And still they sleep: the holy moon looks in,
In at the painted window-panes, and flings
Ruby, blue, purple, emerald, amethyst,
Crystal and orange colours on their limbs;
And round her face a glory of white light,
As one that sins not; on the tapestries
Gold lights are flashing like the wings of angels,
Bringing these two hearts to be single-hearted.”
O Edwin! what could tempt you to charge your pallet with so many colours? Don’t you see how ill they assort together, giving the impression of a mashed rainbow?—and how dreadfully out of place are the flashing gold lights! They should be “lying,” Edwin, not “flashing;” for the holy moon is looking in, and all within the chamber should be repose. Pray you observe the exquisite toning of Keats in that passage with which you are already familiar, but the extreme beauty of which you do not yet thoroughly comprehend.
“Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,As down she knelt for Heaven’s grace and boon;Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,And on her silver cross soft amethyst,And on her hair a glory, like a saint:She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,Save wings, for heaven.—”
“Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,As down she knelt for Heaven’s grace and boon;Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,And on her silver cross soft amethyst,And on her hair a glory, like a saint:She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,Save wings, for heaven.—”
“Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,As down she knelt for Heaven’s grace and boon;Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,And on her silver cross soft amethyst,And on her hair a glory, like a saint:She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,Save wings, for heaven.—”
“Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,
As down she knelt for Heaven’s grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven.—”
Keats gives the colours in which an angel should be painted—yours, Mr Edwin, are too tawdry even for the coat of Harlequin.
So many of these poems come under the general title of “Occasional,” that we have some difficulty in finding a proper one for extract. Our favourite, on the whole, is “Quentin Matsys,” and from it we select a specimen.
“She was a painter’s daughter,—bold for loveHe told his earnest suit, and prayed her handIn words that his full heart made eloquence.Silent the father heard; there as he sateIn jewelled silks, and velvets furbelow’d,With works of mighty masters on the wall,And all his art’s appliances about him,A stern smile curled his pale patrician lip,And cold and slow the cruel sentence came:‘A painter’s daughter may not wed a smith;Paint me like this and these, and thou shalt have her.’Died then his love? Listen! The maiden weptSuch pearly tears, that in his bursting heartGrew up strange hopes. Alas! to few is givenThe magic skill that burns in life-like hues,A speaking lip, an eye that beams and loves,A moving majesty like nature’s own,Save that this may not die: it is a giftHigher and holier than a common manMay dare to reach at; oh! by what right, then,Dared he to dream of it? by what right! Love’s!—The love that lifts a peasant to a king,The love that knows no doubting! Well he knew—Too well for his fond hopes—that brawny armsGuide not the pencil, and that smithy strokesFix not the fancies of a painter’s mind;But still for that. To gaze into the eyesThat sparkled all for him was inspirationBetter than painter’s best: long days and nightsHe strove as only lovers strive; at lastThe passport to the haven of his hopesCame in a touch, as if some angel handHad dipt his brush in life; and as the formHis fancy pictured, slowly—slowly grew,And woke into broad being, then at lastHe knew that he had won his golden prize—That she was his for ever.Antwerp’s bellsRung out right merrily one sunny day;Blue kirtles, and bright hose, and brighter faces,Rhenish and sack, dancing and songs were there,Feasting and music, and mad revelry,And all to keep the wedding:—cavaliersAnd highborn ladies stood to see them pass,He, Quentin Matsys, and his blooming bride!”
“She was a painter’s daughter,—bold for loveHe told his earnest suit, and prayed her handIn words that his full heart made eloquence.Silent the father heard; there as he sateIn jewelled silks, and velvets furbelow’d,With works of mighty masters on the wall,And all his art’s appliances about him,A stern smile curled his pale patrician lip,And cold and slow the cruel sentence came:‘A painter’s daughter may not wed a smith;Paint me like this and these, and thou shalt have her.’Died then his love? Listen! The maiden weptSuch pearly tears, that in his bursting heartGrew up strange hopes. Alas! to few is givenThe magic skill that burns in life-like hues,A speaking lip, an eye that beams and loves,A moving majesty like nature’s own,Save that this may not die: it is a giftHigher and holier than a common manMay dare to reach at; oh! by what right, then,Dared he to dream of it? by what right! Love’s!—The love that lifts a peasant to a king,The love that knows no doubting! Well he knew—Too well for his fond hopes—that brawny armsGuide not the pencil, and that smithy strokesFix not the fancies of a painter’s mind;But still for that. To gaze into the eyesThat sparkled all for him was inspirationBetter than painter’s best: long days and nightsHe strove as only lovers strive; at lastThe passport to the haven of his hopesCame in a touch, as if some angel handHad dipt his brush in life; and as the formHis fancy pictured, slowly—slowly grew,And woke into broad being, then at lastHe knew that he had won his golden prize—That she was his for ever.Antwerp’s bellsRung out right merrily one sunny day;Blue kirtles, and bright hose, and brighter faces,Rhenish and sack, dancing and songs were there,Feasting and music, and mad revelry,And all to keep the wedding:—cavaliersAnd highborn ladies stood to see them pass,He, Quentin Matsys, and his blooming bride!”
“She was a painter’s daughter,—bold for loveHe told his earnest suit, and prayed her handIn words that his full heart made eloquence.Silent the father heard; there as he sateIn jewelled silks, and velvets furbelow’d,With works of mighty masters on the wall,And all his art’s appliances about him,A stern smile curled his pale patrician lip,And cold and slow the cruel sentence came:‘A painter’s daughter may not wed a smith;Paint me like this and these, and thou shalt have her.’Died then his love? Listen! The maiden weptSuch pearly tears, that in his bursting heartGrew up strange hopes. Alas! to few is givenThe magic skill that burns in life-like hues,A speaking lip, an eye that beams and loves,A moving majesty like nature’s own,Save that this may not die: it is a giftHigher and holier than a common manMay dare to reach at; oh! by what right, then,Dared he to dream of it? by what right! Love’s!—The love that lifts a peasant to a king,The love that knows no doubting! Well he knew—Too well for his fond hopes—that brawny armsGuide not the pencil, and that smithy strokesFix not the fancies of a painter’s mind;But still for that. To gaze into the eyesThat sparkled all for him was inspirationBetter than painter’s best: long days and nightsHe strove as only lovers strive; at lastThe passport to the haven of his hopesCame in a touch, as if some angel handHad dipt his brush in life; and as the formHis fancy pictured, slowly—slowly grew,And woke into broad being, then at lastHe knew that he had won his golden prize—That she was his for ever.Antwerp’s bellsRung out right merrily one sunny day;Blue kirtles, and bright hose, and brighter faces,Rhenish and sack, dancing and songs were there,Feasting and music, and mad revelry,And all to keep the wedding:—cavaliersAnd highborn ladies stood to see them pass,He, Quentin Matsys, and his blooming bride!”
“She was a painter’s daughter,—bold for love
He told his earnest suit, and prayed her hand
In words that his full heart made eloquence.
Silent the father heard; there as he sate
In jewelled silks, and velvets furbelow’d,
With works of mighty masters on the wall,
And all his art’s appliances about him,
A stern smile curled his pale patrician lip,
And cold and slow the cruel sentence came:
‘A painter’s daughter may not wed a smith;
Paint me like this and these, and thou shalt have her.’
Died then his love? Listen! The maiden wept
Such pearly tears, that in his bursting heart
Grew up strange hopes. Alas! to few is given
The magic skill that burns in life-like hues,
A speaking lip, an eye that beams and loves,
A moving majesty like nature’s own,
Save that this may not die: it is a gift
Higher and holier than a common man
May dare to reach at; oh! by what right, then,
Dared he to dream of it? by what right! Love’s!—
The love that lifts a peasant to a king,
The love that knows no doubting! Well he knew—
Too well for his fond hopes—that brawny arms
Guide not the pencil, and that smithy strokes
Fix not the fancies of a painter’s mind;
But still for that. To gaze into the eyes
That sparkled all for him was inspiration
Better than painter’s best: long days and nights
He strove as only lovers strive; at last
The passport to the haven of his hopes
Came in a touch, as if some angel hand
Had dipt his brush in life; and as the form
His fancy pictured, slowly—slowly grew,
And woke into broad being, then at last
He knew that he had won his golden prize—
That she was his for ever.
Antwerp’s bells
Rung out right merrily one sunny day;
Blue kirtles, and bright hose, and brighter faces,
Rhenish and sack, dancing and songs were there,
Feasting and music, and mad revelry,
And all to keep the wedding:—cavaliers
And highborn ladies stood to see them pass,
He, Quentin Matsys, and his blooming bride!”
Well then, after having given these extracts, we may be asked whether we think that Mr Edwin Arnold is really and truly a poet? Look, our dear sir, we beseech you, at that splendid gamecock—how glossy in his plumage, how quick in his eye, how massive in his neck, and how powerful in his limbs! There he walks, proud as the sultan at the head of his seraglio, the pride of his master’s heart, the terror of every recreant dunghill within a circle of a couple of miles. Some few months ago he was a mere chicken, whom you might have devoured with parsley-sauce without experiencing a pang of remorse. Before that he lay in an egg-shell. Now, had you looked either on the egg or on the chicken, you could not have stated with propriety that either was a gamecock—and yet there undeniably goes the finest ginger-pile in the parish. So is it with Mr Edwin Arnold. He may not be entitled yet to the high and sacred name of a poet—for he is still exercising himself in verse, and has not attained the possession of a distinguishing style of his own; but he shows excellent symptoms of breeding, and we doubt not will, in due time, advance a valid claim to the laurels. This, moreover, is to be said in his favour, that he is not treading in the footsteps of the “intense” school, and that he always writes intelligibly—a virtue which we observe a good many modern poets hold utterly in derision. Let him go on in his vocation, cultivating his taste, improving his judgment, observing nature, and eschewing gaudy ornament—and he may hope to win a name which shall be reverenced, when those of the utterers of fustian and balderdash, dear to the heart of Guffaw, are either wholly forgotten, or remembered only with ridicule.