Goethe, though fertile in poems of the amatory and contemplative class, was somewhat chary of putting forth his strength in the ballad. We have already selected almost every specimen of this most popular and fascinating description of poetry which is at all worthy of his genius;—at least all of them which we thought likely, after making every allowance for variety of taste, to fulfil the main object of our task—to please and not offend. It would have been quite easy for us to spin out the series by translating the whole section of ballads which relate to the loves of "the Maid of the Mill," the "Gipsy's Song"—which somewhat unaccountably has found favour in the eyes of Mrs Austin—and a few more ditties of a similar nature, all of which we bequeath, with our best wishes, as a legacy to any intrepidrédacteurwho may wish to follow in our footsteps. For ourselves, we shall rigidly adhere to the rule with which we set out, and separate the wheat from the chaff, according to the best of our ability.
The first specimen of our present selection is not properly German, nor is it the unsuggested and original product of Goethe's muse. We believe that it is an old ballad of Denmark; a country which possesses, next to Scotland, the richest and most interesting store of ancient ballad poetry in Europe. However, although originally Danish, it has received some touches in passing through the alembic of translation, which may warrant us in giving it a prominent place, and we are sure that no lover of hoar tradition will blame us for its insertion.
The Water-Man.
"Oh, mother! rede me well, I pray;How shall I woo me yon winsome May?"She has built him a horse of the water clear,The saddle and bridle of sea-sand were.He has donn'd the garb of knight so gay,And to Mary's Kirk he has ridden away.He tied his steed to the chancel door,And he stepp'd round the Kirk three times and four.He has boune him into the Kirk, and allDrew near to gaze on him, great and small.The priest he was standing in the quire;—"What gay young gallant comes branking here?"The winsome maid, to herself said she;—"Oh, were that gay young gallant for me!"He stepp'd o'er one stool, he stepp'd o'er two;"Oh, maiden, plight me thy oath so true!"He stepp'd o'er three stools, he stepp'd o'er four;"Wilt be mine, sweet May, for evermore?"She gave him her hand of the drifted snow—"Here hast thou my troth, and with thee I'll go."They went from the Kirk with the bridal train,They danced in glee, and they danced full fain;They danced them down to the salt-sea strand,And they left them there with hand in hand."Now wait thee, love, with my steed so free,And the bonniest bark I'll bring for thee."And when they pass'd to the white, white sand,The ships came sailing towards the land;But when they were out in the midst of the sound,Down went they all in the deep profound!Long, long on the shore, when the winds were high,They heard from the waters the maiden's cry.I rede ye, damsels, as best I can—Tread not the dance with the Water-Man!
This is strong, pure, rugged Norse, scarcely inferior, we think, in any way, to the pitch of the old Scottish ballads.
Before we forsake the North, let us try "The King in Thule." We are unfortunate in having to follow in the wake of the hundred translators of Faust, some of whom (we may instance Lord Francis Egerton) have already rendered this ballad as perfectly as may be; nevertheless we shall give it, as Shakspeare says, "with a difference."
The King in Thule.
There was a king in Thule,Was true till death I ween:A vase he had of the ruddy gold,The gift of his dying queen.He never pass'd it from him—At banquet 'twas his cup;And still his eyes were fill'd with tearsWhene'er he took it up.So when his end drew nearer,He told his cities fair,And all his wealth, except that cup,He left unto his heir.Once more he sate at royal board,The knights around his knee,Within the palace of his sires,Hard by the roaring sea.Up rose the brave old monarch,And drank with feeble breath,Then threw the sacred goblet downInto the flood beneath.He watch'd its tip reel round and dip,Then settle in the main;His eyes grew dim as it went down—He never drank again.
We shall now venture on an extravaganza which might have been well illustrated by Hans Holbein. It is in the ultra-Germanic taste, such as in our earlier days, whilst yet the Teutonic alphabet was a mystery, we conceived to be the staple commodity of our neighbours. We shall never quarrel with a wholesome spice of superstition; but, really, Hoffmann, Apel, and their fantastic imitators, have done more to render their national literature ridiculous, than the greatest poets to redeem it. The following poem of Goethe is a strange piece of sarcasm directed against that school, and is none the worse, perhaps, that it somewhat out-herods Herod in its ghostly and grim solemnity. Like many other satires, too, it verges closely upon the serious. We back it against any production of M. G. Lewis.
The Dance of Death.
The warder look'd down at the depth of nightOn the graves where the dead were sleeping,And, clearly as day, was the pale moonlightO'er the quiet churchyard creeping.One after another the gravestones beganTo heave and to open, and woman and manRose up in their ghastly apparel!Ho—ho for the dance!—and the phantoms outsprungIn skeleton roundel advancing,The rich and the poor, and the old and the young,But the winding-sheets hinder'd their dancing.No shame had these revellers wasted and grim,So they shook off the cerements from body and limb,And scatter'd them over the hillocks.They crook'd their thighbones, and they shook their long shanks,And wild was their reeling and limber;And each bone as it crosses, it clinks and it clanksLike the clapping of timber on timber.The warder he laugh'd, though his laugh was not loud;And the Fiend whisper'd to him—"Go, steal me the shroudOf one of these skeleton dancers."He has done it! and backward with terrified glanceTo the sheltering door ran the warder;As calm as before look'd the moon on the dance,Which they footed in hideous order.But one and another seceding at last,Slipp'd on their white garments and onward they pass'd,And the deeps of the churchyard were quiet.Still, one of them stumbles and tumbles along,And taps at each tomb that it seizes;But 'tis none of its mates that has done it this wrong,For it scents its grave-clothes in the breezes.It shakes the tower gate, butthatdrives it away,For 'twas nail'd o'er with crosses—a goodly array—And well was it so for the warder!It must have its shroud—it must have it betimes—The quaint Gothic carving it catches,And upwards from story to story it climbsAnd scrambles with leaps and with snatches.Now woe to the warder, poor sinner, betides!Like a long-legged spider the skeleton stridesFrom buttress to buttress, still upward!The warder he shook, and the warder grew pale,And gladly the shroud would have yielded!The ghost had its clutch on the last iron railWhich the top of the watch-turret shielded.When the moon was obscured by the rush of a cloud,One!thunder'd the bell, and unswathed by a shroud,Down went the gaunt skeleton crashing!
A very pleasant piece of poetry to translate at midnight, as we did it, with merely the assistance of a dying candle!
After this feast of horrors, something more fanciful may not come amiss. Let us pass to a competition of flowers in the golden, or—if you will have it so—the iron age of chivalry. The meditations of a captive knight have been a cherished theme for poets in all ages. Richard the Lion-heart of England, and James I. of Scotland, have left us, in no mean verse, the records of their own experience. We all remember how nobly and how well Felicia Hemans portrayed the agony of the crusader as he saw, from the window of his prison, the bright array of his Christian comrades defiling through the pass below. We shall now take a similar poem of Goethe, but one in a different vein:—
The Lay of the Captive Earl.
The Earl.—I know a floweret passing fair,And for its loss I pain me;Fain would I hence to seek its lair,But for these bonds that chain me.My woes are aught but light to me,For when I roam'd unbound and freeThat flower was ever near me.Adown and round the castle's steep,I let my glances wander;But cannot from the dizzy keep,Descry it, there or yonder.Oh, he who'd bring it to my sight,Or were he knave or were he knight,Should be my friend for ever!The Rose.—I blossom bright thy lattice near,And hear what thou hast spoken;'Tis me—brave, ill-starr'd cavalier—The Rose, thou wouldst betoken!Thy spirit spurns the base, the low,And 'tis the queen of flowers, I know,That in thy bosom reigneth.The Earl.—All honour to thy purple cheer,From swathes of verdure blowing;And so art though to maidens dear,As gold or jewels glowing.Thy wreaths adorn the fairest face,Yet art thou not the flower, whose graceIn solitude I cherish.The Lily.—A haughty place usurps the rose,And haughtier still doth covet;But where the lily meekly blows,Some gentle eye will love it.The heart that beats in faithful breast,And spotless is as my white vest,Must value me the highest.The Earl.—Spotless and true of heart am I,And free from sinful failing,Yet must I here a captive lie,In loneliness bewailing.I see an image fair in youOf many maidens pure and true,Yet know I something dearer.The Carnation.—That may thy warder's garden showIn me, the bright carnation,Else would the old man tend me soWith loving adoration?In perfect round my petals meet,And lifelong are with scent replete,And with a burning colour.The Earl.—None may the sweet carnation slight,It is the gardener's pleasure,Now he unfolds it to the light,Now shields from it his treasure.But no—the flower for which I pant,No rare, no brilliant charms can vaunt,'Tis ever meek and lowly.The Violet.—Conceal'd and bending I retreat,Nor willingly had spoken,Yet that same silence, since 'tis meet,Shall now by me be broken.If I be that which fills thy thoughtThen must I grieve that I may notWaft every perfume to thee.The Earl.—I love the violet, indeed,So modest in perfection,So gently sweet—yet more I needTo soothe my heart's dejection.To thee alone the truth I'll speak,That not upon this rock so bleakIs to be found my darling.In yon far vale, earth's truest wifeSits where the brooks run playing,And still must wear a woeful lifeTill I with her am straying.When a blue floweret by that spotShe plucks, and says—FORGET-ME-NOT,I feel it here in bondage.Yes, when two truly love, its mightThey own and feel in distance,So I, within this dungeon's night,Cling ever to existence.And when my heart is nigh distraught,If I but say—FORGET-ME-NOT,Hope burns again within me!
Such is constant love—the light even of the dungeon! Nor, to the glory of human nature be it said, is this a fiction. Witness Picciola—witness those letters, perhaps the most touching that were ever penned, from poor Camille Desmoulins to his wife, while waiting for the summons to the guillotine—witness, above all, that fragment signed Quéret-Démery, which could not get beyond the sullen walls of the Bastile until fifty years after the agonizing request was preferred, when that torture-chamber of cruelty was razed indignantly to the ground—"If, for my consolation, Monseigneur would grant me, for the sake of God and the most blessed Trinity, that I could have news of my dear wife! were it only her name on a card to show that she is yet alive! It were the sweetest consolation I could receive; and I should for ever bless the greatness of Monseigneur." Poetry has no such eloquence as this.
But we must not digress from our author. Here are a few lines of the deepest feeling and truth, and most appropriate in the hours of wretchedness—
Sorrow without Consolation.
O, wherefore shouldst thou tryThe tears of love to dry?Nay, let them flow!For didst thou only know,How barren and how deadSeems every thing below,To those who have not tears enough to shed,Thou'd'st rather bid themweep, and seek their comfort so.
The following stanzas, though rather inferior in merit, may be taken as a companion to the above. Their structure reminds us of Cowley.
Comfort in Tears.
How is it that thou art so sadWhen others are so gay?Thou hast been weeping—nay, thou hast!Thine eyes the truth betray."And if I may not choose but weep,Is not my grief mine own?No heart was heavier yet for tears—O leave me, friend, alone!"Come, join this once the merry band,They call aloud for thee,And mourn no more for what is lost,But let the past go free."O, little know ye in your mirthWhat wrings my heart so deep!I have not lost the idol yetFor which I sigh and weep."Then rouse thee and take heart! thy bloodIs young and full of fire;Youth should have hope and might to win,And wear its best desire."O, never may I hope to gainWhat dwells from me so far;It stands as high, it looks as bright,As yonder burning star."Why, who would seek to woo the starsDown from their glorious sphere?Enough it is to worship them,When nights are calm and clear."Oh, I look up and worship too—My star it shines by day—Then let me weep the livelong lightThe whilst it is away."
A thread from the distaff of Omphale may be stronger than the club of Hercules. Here is an inconstant Romeo escaped from his Juliet, and yet unable to shake off the magnetic spell which must haunt him to his dying day.
To a Golden Heart.
Pledge of departed bliss,Once gentlest, holiest token!Art thou more faithful than thy mistress is,That ever I must wear thee,And on my bosom bear thee,Although the bond that knit her soul with mine is broken?Why shouldest thou prove stronger?Short are the days of love, and wouldst thou make them longer?Lili! in vain I shun thee!Thy spell is still upon me.In vain I wander through the distant forests strange,In vain I roam at willBy foreign glade and hill,For, ah! where'er I range,Beside my heart, the heart of Lili nestles still!Like a bird that breaks its twine,Is this poor heart of mine:It fain into the summer bowers would fly,And yet it cannot beAgain so wholly free;For always it must bearThe token which is there,To mark it as a thrall of past captivity.
Here, again, is Romeo before his escape. Poor Juliet! may we hope that she still has, and may long possess, the power
"To lure this tassel-gentle back again."
Death, indeed, were a gentler fate than desertion. Truth to say, Goethe would have made but a sorry Romeo, for he wanted the great and leading virtue of constancy; and yet who can tell what Romeo might have become, after six months' exile in Mantua? Juliet, we know, had taken the place of Rosaline. Might not some fairer and newer star have arisen to eclipse the image of the other? We will not credit the heresy. Far better that the curtain should fall upon the dying lovers, before one shadow of doubt or suspicion of infidelity has arisen to perplex the clear bright mirror of their souls!
Welcome and Departure.
To horse!—away o'er hill and steep!Into the saddle blithe I sprung;The eve was cradling earth to sleep,And night upon the mountains hung.With robes of mist around him set,The oak like some huge giant stood,While, with its hundred eyes of jet,Peer'd darkness from the tangled wood.Amidst a bank of clouds, the moonA sad and troubled glimmer shed;The wind its chilly wings unclosed,And whistled wildly round my head.Night framed a thousand phantoms dire,Yet did I never droop nor start;Within my veins what living fire!What quenchless glow within my heart!We met; and from thy glance a tideOf stifling joy flow'd into me:My heart was wholly by thy side,My every breath was breathed for thee.A blush was there, as if thy cheekThe gentlest hues of spring had caught,And smiles so kind for me!—Great powers!I hoped, yet I deserved them not!But morning came to end my bliss;A long, a sad farewell we took.What joy—what rapture in thy kiss,What depth of anguish in thy look!I left thee, dear! but after meThine eyes through tears look'd from above;Yet to be loved—what ecstacy!What ecstacy, ye gods, to love!
Here are three small cabinet pictures of exquisite finish. We have laboured hard to do justice to them, for the smallest gems are the most difficult to copy; yet after all we have some doubts of our success.
Evening.
Peace breathes along the shadeOf every hill,The tree-tops of the gladeAre hush'd and still;All woodland murmurs cease,The birds to rest within the brake are gone.Be patient, weary heart—anon,Thou, too, shalt be at peace!
A Calm at Sea.
Lies a calm along the deep,Like a mirror sleeps the ocean,And the anxious steersman seesRound him neither stir nor motion.Not a breath of wind is stirring,Dread the hush as of the grave—In the weary waste of watersNot the lifting of a wave.
The Breeze.
The mists they are scatter'd,The blue sky looks brightly,And Eolus loosesThe wearisome chain!The winds, how they whistle!The steersman is busy—Hillio-ho, hillio-ho!We dash through the billows—They flash far behind us—Land, land, boys, again!
In one of Goethe's little operas, which are far less studied than they deserve, although replete with grace, melody, and humour, we stumbled upon a ballad which we at once recognised as an old acquaintance. Some of our readers may happen to recollect the very witty and popular ditty called "Captain Wedderburn's Courtship," a peculiar favourite amongst the lower orders in Scotland, but not, so far as we knew, transplanted from its native soil. Our surprise, therefore, was great when we discovered Captain Wedderburn dressed out in the garb of aJunkerof the middle ages, and "bonny Girzie Sinclair," the Laird of Roslin's daughter, masquerading as a GermanFraülein. The coincidence, if it be not plagiary, is so curious, that we have translated the ballad with a much freer hand than usual, confessing at the same time thatthe advantage, in point of humour and gallantry, is clearly on the side of the old Mid-Lothian ditty.
The Cavalier's Choice.
It was a gallant cavalierOf honour and renown,And all to seek a ladye-loveHe rode from town to town.Till at a widow-woman's doorHe drew the rein so free;For at her side the knight espiedHer comely daughters three.Well might he gaze upon them,For they were fair and tall;Ye never have seen fairerIn bower nor yet in hall.Small marvel if the gallant's heartBeat quicker in his breast:'Twas hard to choose, and hard to lose—How might he wale the best?"Now, maidens, pretty maidens mine,Who'll rede me riddles three?And she who answers best of allShall be my own ladye!"I ween they blush'd as maidens doWhen such rare words they hear—"Now speak thy riddles, if thou wilt,Thou gay young Cavalier!""What's longer than the longest path?First tell ye that to me;And tell me what is deeperThan is the deepest sea?And tell me what is louderThan is the loudest horn?And tell me what is sharperThan is the sharpest thorn?"And tell me what is greenerThan greenest grass on hill?And tell me what is cruellerThan a wicked woman's will?"The eldest and the second maid,They sat and thought awhile;But the youngest she look'd upward,And spoke with merry smile."O, love is surely longer farThan the longest paths that be;And hell, they say, is deeperThan is the deepest sea;And thunder it is louderThan is the loudest horn;And hunger it is sharperThan is the sharpest thorn;I know a deadly poisonMore green than grass on hill;And the foul fiend he is cruellerThan any woman's will!"Scarce had the maiden spokenWhen the youth was by her side,And, all for what she answer'd him,Has claim'd her as his bride.The eldest and the second maid,They ponder'd and were dumb;And there, perchance, are waiting yetTill another wooer come.Then, maidens, take this warning word,Be neither slow nor shy,And always, when a lover speaks,Look kindly and reply.
The following beautiful verses are from Wilhelm Meister. We shall venture to call them
Retribution.
He that with tears did never eat his bread,He that hath never lain through night's long hours,Weeping in bitter anguish on his bed—He knows ye not, ye dread celestial powers.Ye lead us onwards into life. Ye leaveThe wretch to fall, then yield him up, in woe,Remorse, and pain, unceasingly to grieve;For every sin is punished here below.
We shall close this number with a series of poems, in imitation, or rather after the manner of the antique, all of which possess singular beauty. No man understood or appreciated the exquisite delicacy of the Greek Anthology better than our author; and although we may, in several of the versions, have fallen short of the originals, we trust that enough still remains to convince the reader that we have not exaggerated their merit.
The Husbandman.
Lightly doth the furrow fold the golden grain within its breast,Deeper shroud, old man, shall cover in thy limbs when laid at rest.Blithely plough and sow as blithely! Here are springs of mortal cheer,And when e'en the grave is closing, Hope is ever standing near.
Anacreon's Grave.
Where the rose is fresh and blooming—where the vine and myrtle spring—Where the turtle-dove is cooing—where the gay cicalas sing—Whose may be the grave surrounded with such store of comely grace,Like a God-created garden? 'Tis Anacreon's resting-place.Spring and summer and the autumn pour'd their gifts around the bard,And, ere winter came to chill him, slept he safe beneath the sward.
The Brothers.
Slumber, Sleep—they were two brothers, servants to the Gods above;Kind Prometheus lured them downwards, ever fill'd with earthly love;But what Gods could bear so lightly, press'd too hard on men beneath;Slumber did his brother's duty—Sleep was deepen'd into Death.
Love's Hour-glass.
Eros! wherefore do I see thee, with the glass in either hand?Fickle God! with double measure wouldst thou count the shifting sand?"Thisone flows for parted lovers—slowly drops each tiny bead—Thatis for the days of dalliance, and it melts with golden speed."
Warning.
Do not touch him—do not wake him! Fast asleep is Amor lying;Go—fulfil thy work appointed—do thy labour of the day.Thus the wise and careful mother uses every moment flying,Whilst her child is in the cradle—Slumbers pass too soon away.
Solitude.
Grant, O ye healing Nymphs, that have your hauntsBy rock and stream and lonely forest glade,The boon which, in their bosoms' silent depths,Your votaries crave! Unto the sad of heartGive comfort—knowledge unto him that doubts—Possession to the lover, and its joy.For unto you the Gods have given, what theyDenied to man—to aid and to consoleAll those soe'er who put their trust in you.
Perfect Bliss.
All the divine perfections, which, while ereNature in thrift doled out 'mongst many a fair,She shower'd with open hand, thou peerless one, on thee!And she that was so wond'rously endow'd,To whom a throng of noble knees were bow'd,Gave all—Love's perfect gift—her glorious self, to me!
The Chosen Rock.
Here, in the hush and stillness of mid-noon,The lover lay and thought upon his love;With blithesome voice he spoke to me: "Be thouMy witness, stone!—Yet, therefore, vaunt thee not,For thou hast many partners of my joy—To every rock that crowns this grassy dell,And looks on me and my felicity;To every forest-stem that I embraceIn my entrancement as I roam along,Stand thou for a memorial of my bliss!All mingle with my rapture, and to allI lift a consecrating cry of joy.Yet do I lend a voice to thee alone,As culls the Muse some favourite from the crowd,And, with a kiss, inspires for evermore."
The Death Trance.
Weep, maiden, here by Cupid's grave! He fell,Some nothing kill'd him—what I cannot tell.But is he really dead?—I swear not that, in sooth;A trifle—nothing—oft revives the youth.
Philomela.
Surely, surely, Amor nursed thee, songstress of the plaintive note,And, in fond and childish fancy, fed thee from his pointed dart.So, sweet Philomel, the poison sunk into thy guileless throat,Till, with all love's weight of passion, strike its notes to every heart.
Sacred Ground.
A place to mark the Graces, when they comeDown from Olympus, still and secretly,To join the Oreads in their festival,Beneath the light of the benignant moon.There lies the poet, watching them unseen,The whilst they chant the sweetest songs of heaven,Or, floating o'er the sward without a sound,Lead on the mystic wonder of the dance.All that is great in heaven, or fair on earth,Unveils its glories to the dreamer's eye,And all he tells the Muses. They again,Knowing that Gods are jealous of their own,Teach him, through all the passion of his verse,To utter these high secrets reverently.
The Park.
How beautiful! A garden fair as heaven,Flowers of all hues, and smiling in the sun,Where all was waste and wilderness before.Well do ye imitate, ye gods of earth,The great Creator. Rock, and lake, and glade,Birds, fishes, and untamed beasts are here.Your work were all an Eden, but for this—Here is no man unconscious of a pang,No perfect Sabbath of unbroken rest.
The Teachers.
What time Diogenes, unmoved and still,Lay in his tub, and bask'd him in the sun—What time Calanus clomb, with lightsome stepAnd smiling cheek, up to his fiery tomb—What rare examples there for Philip's sonTo curb his overmastering lust of sway,But that the Lord of the majestic worldWas all too great for lessons even like these!
Marriage Unequal.
Alas, that even in a heavenly marriage,The fairest lots should ne'er be reconciled!Psyche wax'd old, and prudent in her carriage,Whilst Cupid evermore remains the child.
Holy Family.
O child of beauty rare—O mother chaste and fair—How happy seem they both, so far beyond compare!She, in her infant blest,And he in conscious rest,Nestling within the soft warm cradle of her breast!What joy that sight might bearTo him who sees them there,If, with a pure and guilt-untroubled eye,He looked upon the twain, like Joseph standing by.
Exculpation.
Wilt thou dare to blame the woman for her seeming sudden changes,Swaying east and swaying westward, as the breezes shake the tree?Fool! thy selfish thought misguides thee—find themanthat never ranges;Woman wavers but to seek him—Is not then the fault in thee?
The Muse's Mirror.
To deck herself, the Muse, at early morn,Wander'd a-down a wimpling brook, to findSome glassy pool more quiet than the rest.On sped the stream, and ever as it ranIt swept away her image, which did changeWith every bend and dimple of the wave.In wrath the Goddess turn'd her from the spot,Yet after her the brook, with taunting tongue,Did call—"'Tis plain thou wilt not see the truthAll purely though my mirror shows it thee!"But she, meanwhile, stood with indifferent ear,By a far corner of the crystal lake,Delightedly surveying her fair form,And settling flowerets in her golden hair.
Phœbus and Hermes.
The deep-brow'd lord of Delos once, and Maia's nimble-witted son,Contended eagerly by whom the prize of glory should be won;Hermes long'd to grasp the lyre,—the lyre Apollo hoped to gain,And both their hearts were full of hope, and yet the hopes of both were vain.For Ares, to decide the strife, between them rudely dash'd in ire,And waving high his falchion keen, he cleft in twain the golden lyre.Loud Hermes laugh'd maliciously, but at the direful deed did fallThe deepest grief upon the heart of Phœbus and the Muses all.
A New Love.
Love, not the simple youth that whilome woundHimself about young Psyche's heart, look'd roundOlympus with a cold and roving eye,That had accustom'd been to victory.It rested on a Goddess, noblest farOf all that noble throng—a glorious star—Venus Urania. And from that hourHe loved her. Ah! to his resistless powerEven she, the holy one, did yield at last,And in his daring arms he held her fast.A new and beauteous Love from that embraceHad birth; that to the mother owed his graceAnd purity of soul; whilst from his sireHe borrow'd all his passion, all his fire.Him ever where the gracious Muses beThou'lt surely find. Such sweet societyIs his delight, and his sharp-pointed dartDoth rouse within men's breasts the love ofArt.
The Wreaths.
Our German Klopstock, if he had his will,Would bar us from the skirts of Pindus old.No more the classic laurel should be prized,But the rough leaflets of our native oakAlone should glisten in the poet's hair;Yet did himself, with spirit unreclaim'dFrom first allegiance to those early Gods,Lead up to Golgotha's most awful heightWith more than epic pomp the new Crusade.But let him range the bright angelic hostOn either hill—no matter. By his graveAll gentle hearts should bow them down and weep.For where a hero and a saint have died,Or where a poet sang prophetical,Dying as greatly as they greatly lived,To give memorial to all after times,Of lofty worth and courage undismay'd;There, in mute reverence, all devoutly kneel,In homage of the thorn and laurel wreath,That were at once their glory and their pang!
The Swiss Alp.
Yesterday thy head was brown, as are the flowing locks of love,In the bright blue sky I watch'd thee towering, giant-like, above.Now thy summit, white and hoary, glitters all with silver snow,Which the stormy night hath shaken from its robes upon thy brow;And I know that youth and age are bound with such mysterious meaning,As the days are link'd together, one short dream but intervening.
There exists in this country a numerous class of persons who, if they were given their choice of an overland journey to India and back, or a ramble through Spain, occupying the same space of time, would prefer the former, as likely to be less inconvenient, and decidedly far less perilous. The wars and rumours of wars, revolutions, rebellions, skirmishes, andpronunciamentos, that newspapers have recorded during the last ten or twelve years, with an occasional particularly bloody and barbarous execution by way of interlude, have certainly not been calculated to reassure timid travellers; nor can we well wonder that, at the mere mention of an excursion beyond the Pyrenees, tourists are seized with a vertigo; and that visions, not only of rancidgaspachosand vermin-haunted couches, but of chocolate-complexioned ruffians with sugar-loaf hats, button-bedecked jackets, fierce mustaches, and lengthyescopetas, peering out of the gloomy recesses of a cork wood, or from among the silvery foliage of an olive grove, pass before the eyes of their imagination. Dangers often appear greater at a distance than upon close examination; many a phantom of ghastly aspect proves upon inspection to be but a turnip-faced goblin after all: and we suspect that if some of the timorous would adventure themselves upon Spanish soil, they might find their precious persons far safer than they had anticipated; and discover that they were in the hands neither of Caffres nor cannibals, but amongst a courteous and generous people, who, if occasionally a little too disposed to slit each other's weasands, on the other hand are very rarely forgetful of the laws of hospitality, or of the kindness and protection to which travellers in a foreign land have a fair claim. We do not mean to recommend Spain as a desirable travelling ground for those adventurous English dames, whom we have occasionally met journeying by coachfuls in France, Germany, and other peaceable lands, unsquired and unescorted save by their waiting-maids: to them the encounter ofrateros,salteadores, or other varieties of Spanish banditti, might be in various respects disagreeable; but for men, who, without leaving Europe, may wish to visit other scenes than those in which every Cockney tourist has wandered, we know of few expeditions more interesting than one into the interior of Spain. Fine scenery, interesting monuments, associations historic, classic, and poetical, and—which to our thinking is still preferable—a people who, in spite of Gallo and Anglo manias, still possess great originality of character and customs, are there to be met with. We cannot do better than refer those persons who would like additional evidence on the subject, to the volumes named at foot[2], in which they will see how a man possessed of prudence, good sense, and good temper, may visit some of the wildest and least frequented parts of the Peninsula, not only without injury or annoyance, but with considerable pleasure and profit.
Captain Widdrington's journey to Spain, in the Spring of 1843, had, as he tells us, a twofold object. He was desirous of observing the effects of the numerous changes that have taken place in that country since the death of Ferdinand; and he, at the same time, thought that his assistance and previous knowledge of the country and people, would be useful to a scientific friend, Dr Daubeny, who had been commissioned by the Agricultural Society to examine the formation of phosphorite in Estremadura. This mineral, it was imagined, might be advantageously substituted for bones as manure.
The travellers had sketched out their route beforehand, and seem to have adhered very closely to the plan they had laid down. Proceedingfrom Bayonne to Madrid, after a short stay in that capital they struck into Estremadura; visited the vein of phosphorite, and explored several interesting districts, into which few travellers penetrate; thence to the quicksilver mines at Almaden, and to various iron mines and founderies, through Seville, Ronda, Malaga, and Granada, and back to Madrid. Here Captain Widdrington separates from his companion, and continues his peregrinations alone, through the kingdom of Leon, the Asturias, and Galicia. In his narrative of this somewhat extensive ramble, the gallant captain displays a very respectable degree of knowledge on a considerable variety of subjects. Agriculture, geology, natural history, the resources of Spain, and the best mode of applying them, political intrigues and changes, the strange and apparently inexplicable ups and downs of public men, are all touched upon in turn: and if the earlier portion of his work is worthy of a member of the learned societies to which he belongs, the latter part is no less creditable to his habits of observation, and to the soundness of his judgment.
One of the first things that appear to have struck Captain Widdrington on arriving at Madrid, was the great activity in the building department—an activity arising chiefly from the sequestration of the church property. Convents were being pulled down, or at least altered so as to render them suitable to other purposes. The ground on which one had stood had been converted into a public walk—a chapel had been replaced by a covered market. The large convent of St Thomas was the headquarters of the national guard; while that of the Trinity had been appropriated to the reception of works of art, the spoils of the other convents. One had been sold to a private speculator, who let it out in chambers; another was the refuge of military invalids; a third, the convent of St Catalina—which was set fire to while the Duke of Angouleme was attending, in the year 1823, a mass celebrated in honour of his successful campaign—had been demolished, and a building for the senate and deputies was erecting on its site. The names of many of the streets had been altered to those of various heroes of Spanish liberty; such as Porlier, Lacy, the Empecinado, and others. The street of the Alcala had been rebaptized after the Duque de la Victoria; but no doubt, as the Captain observes, by this timeon a changé tout cela.
Of the Countess of Mina, who was thenaya, or governess, to the queen, some interesting details are given by Captain Widdrington, who had known her and her husband when they were living in exile at Plymouth subsequently to the affairs of 1823. Madame Mina appears to be a person of very superior powers of mind, far better qualified to superintend the female department of a Spanish queen's education, than the bigoted andafrancesadadowager-marchioness who preceded her in the office, and in the selection of whom Maria Christina, with her usual selfishness, had probably thought more of the political principles and opinions in which she wished Isabella to be brought up, than of her daughter's future welfare and happiness. The universal complaint of theSpanishor national party in the time of Christina was, that the queen's education was neglected, or, it should rather be said, misconducted. The queen-dowager's French tendencies were more than suspected. Of course, when the popular party became in the ascendant, and Madame Mina received the appointment, alike unsolicited and unexpected, of governess to the queen, theafrancesadosset up a yell of horror and consternation. Her husband's humble birth, her character, even her piety, and the mourning habit she had worn ever since her husband's death, were made matters of reproach to her. But though Mina had been born a tiller of the earth, he had died a grandee of Spain, ennobled yet more by his patriotism and great qualities than he could be by the tinsel of a title; the character of the countess was that of a high-minded and virtuous woman; and as to the accusation of being asantarona, or affectedly pious, it was no less unjust than malicious. Here is Captain Widdrington's portrait of her:—