NOTES.

Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d’un monde?Obermann.

Glion? Ah! twenty years, it cuts[28]All meaning from a name!White houses prank where once were huts;Glion, but not the same!And yet I know not! All unchangedThe turf, the pines, the sky!The hills in their old order ranged;The lake, with Chillon by;And ’neath those chestnut-trees, where stiffAnd stony mounts the way,The crackling husk-heaps burn, as ifI left them yesterday.Across the valley, on that slope,The huts of Avant shine;Its pines, under their branches, opeWays for the pasturing kine.Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare,Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass,Invite to rest the traveller thereBefore he climb the pass,—The gentian-flowered pass, its crown[29]With yellow spires aflame;Whence drops the path to Allière down,And walls where Byron came;[30]By their green river, who doth changeHis birth-name just below,Orchard and croft and full-stored grangeNursed by his pastoral flow.But stop! to fetch back thoughts that strayBeyond this gracious bound,The cone of Jaman, pale and gray,See, in the blue profound!Ah, Jaman! delicately tallAbove his sun-warmed firs,—What thoughts to me his rocks recall,What memories he stirs!And who but thou must be, in truth,Obermann! with me here?Thou master of my wandering youth,But left this many a year!Yes, I forget the world’s work wrought,Its warfare waged with pain:An eremite with thee, in thoughtOnce more I slip my chain,—And to thy mountain chalet come,And lie beside its door,And hear the wild bee’s Alpine hum,And thy sad, tranquil lore.Again I feel the words inspireTheir mournful calm; serene,Yet tinged with infinite desireFor all thatmighthave been,—The harmony from which man swervedMade his life’s rule once more;The universal order served,Earth happier than before.—While thus I mused, night gently ranDown over hill and wood.Then, still and sudden, ObermannOn the grass near me stood.Those pensive features well I knew,—On my mind, years before,Imaged so oft, imaged so true!—A shepherd’s garb he wore;A mountain flower was in his hand,A book was in his breast.Bent on my face, with gaze which scannedMy soul, his eyes did rest.“And is it thou,” he cried, “so longHeld by the world which weLoved not, who turnest from the throngBack to thy youth and me?“And from thy world, with heart opprest,Choosest thounowto turn?Ah me! we anchorites read things best,Clearest their course discern!“Thou fled’st me when the ungenial earth,Man’s work-place, lay in gloom:Return’st thou in her hour of birth,Of hopes and hearts in bloom?“Perceiv’st thou not the change of day?Ah! Carry back thy ken,What, some two thousand years! SurveyThe world as it was then.“Like ours it looked in outward air.Its head was clear and true,Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare,No pause its action knew;“Stout was its arm, each thew and boneSeemed puissant and alive:But, ah! its heart, its heart was stone,And so it could not thrive!“On that hard Pagan world, disgustAnd secret loathing fell;Deep weariness and sated lustMade human life a hell.“In his cool hall, with haggard eyes,The Roman noble lay;He drove abroad, in furious guise,Along the Appian Way.“He made a feast, drank fierce and fast,And crowned his hair with flowers;No easier nor no quicker passedThe impracticable hours.“The brooding East with awe beheldHer impious younger world.The Roman tempest swelled and swelled,And on her head was hurled.“The East bowed low before the blastIn patient, deep disdain;She let the legions thunder past,And plunged in thought again.“So well she mused, a morning brokeAcross her spirit gray;A conquering, new-born joy awoke,And filled her life with day.“‘Poor world!’ she cried, ‘so deep accurst,That runn’st from pole to poleTo seek a draught to slake thy thirst.—Go, seek it in thy soul!’“She heard it, the victorious West,In crown and sword arrayed;She felt the void which mined her breast,She shivered and obeyed.“She vailed her eagles, snapped her sword,And laid her sceptre down;Her stately purple she abhorred,And her imperial crown.“She broke her flutes, she stopped her sports,Her artists could not please.She tore her books, she shut her courts,She fled her palaces.“Lust of the eye, and pride of life,She left it all behind,And hurried, torn with inward strife,The wilderness to find.“Tears washed the trouble from her face;She changed into a child;’Mid weeds and wrecks she stood,—a placeOf ruin,—but she smiled!“Oh, had I lived in that great day,How had its glory newFilled earth and heaven, and caught awayMy ravished spirit too!“No thoughts that to the world belongHad stood against the waveOf love which set so deep and strongFrom Christ’s then open grave.“No cloister-floor of humid stoneHad been too cold for me;For me no Eastern desert loneHad been too far to flee.“No lonely life had passed too slow,When I could hourly scanUpon his cross, with head sunk low,That nailed, thorn-crownèd Man;“Could see the Mother with the ChildWhose tender winning artsHave to his little arms beguiledSo many wounded hearts!“And centuries came, and ran their course;And, unspent all that time,Still, still went forth that Child’s dear force,And still was at its prime.“Ay, ages long endured his spanOf life,—’tis true received,—That gracious Child, that thorn-crowned Man!—He lived while we believed.“While we believed, on earth he went,And open stood his grave;Men called from chamber, church, and tent,And Christ was by to save.“Now he is dead! Far hence he liesIn the lorn Syrian town;And on his grave, with shining eyes,The Syrian stars look down.“In vain men still, with hoping new,Regard his death-place dumb,And say the stone is not yet to,And wait for words to come.“Ah! from that silent sacred landOf sun, and arid stone,And crumbling wall, and sultry sand,Comes now one word alone!“From David’s lips that word did roll;’Tis true and living yet,—No man can save his brother’s soul,Nor pay his brother’s debt.“Alone, self-poised, henceforward manMust labor; must resignHis all too human creeds, and scanSimply the way divine;“But slow that tide of common thought,Which bathed our life, retired;Slow, slow the old world wore to naught,And pulse by pulse expired.“Its frame yet stood without a breach,When blood and warmth were fled;And still it spake its wonted speech,But every word was dead.“And oh! we cried, that on this corseMight fall a freshening storm!Rive its dry bones, and with new forceA new-sprung world inform!“—Down came the storm! O’er France it passedIn sheets of scathing fire.All Europe felt that fiery blast,And shook as it rushed by her.“Down came the storm! In ruins fellThe worn-out world we knew.It passed, that elemental swell:Again appeared the blue;“The sun shone in the new-washed sky.—And what from heaven saw he?Blocks of the past, like icebergs high,Float on a rolling sea!“Upon them plies the race of manAll it before endeavored:‘Ye live,’ I cried, ‘ye work and plan,And know not ye are severed!“‘Poor fragments of a broken world,Whereon men pitch their tent!Why were ye too to death not hurledWhen your world’s day was spent?“‘That glow of central fire is doneWhich with its fusing flameKnit all your parts, and kept you one;But ye, ye are the same!“‘The past, its mask of union on,Had ceased to live and thrive:The past, its mask of union gone,Say, is it more alive?“‘Your creeds are dead, your rites are dead,Your social order too.Where tarries he, the Power who said,—See, I make all things new?“‘The millions suffer still, and grieve.And what can helpers healWith old-world cures men half believeFor woes they wholly feel?“‘And yet men have such need of joy!But joy whose grounds are true,And joy that should all hearts employAs when the past was new.“‘Ah! not the emotion of that past,Its common hope, were vain!Some new such hope must dawn at last,Or man must toss in pain.“‘But now the old is out of date,The new is not yet born.And who can bealoneelate,While the world lies forlorn?’“Then to the wilderness I fled.There among Alpine snowsAnd pastoral huts I hid my head,And sought and found repose.“It was not yet the appointed hour.Sad, patient, and resigned,I watched the crocus fade and flower,I felt the sun and wind.“The day I lived in was not mine:Man gets no second day.In dreams I saw the future shine,But ah! I could not stay!“Action I had not, followers, fame.I passed obscure, alone.The after-world forgets my name,Nor do I wish it known.“Composed to bear, I lived and died,And knew my life was vain.With fate I murmur not, nor chide.At Sèvres by the Seine“(If Paris that brief flight allow)My humble tomb explore!It bears:Eternity, be thouMy refuge!and no more.“But thou, whom fellowship of moodDid make from haunts of strifeCome to my mountain solitude,And learn my frustrate life;“O thou, who, ere thy flying spanWas past of cheerful youth,Didst find the solitary man,And love his cheerless truth,—“Despair not thou as I despaired,Nor be cold gloom thy prison!Forward the gracious hours have fared,And see! the sun is risen!“He breaks the winter of the past;A green, new earth appears.Millions, whose life in ice lay fast,Have thoughts and smiles and tears.“What though there still need effort, strife?Though much be still unwon?Yet warm it mounts, the hour of life;Death’s frozen hour is done.“The world’s great order dawns in sheenAfter long darkness rude,Divinelier imaged, clearer seen,With happier zeal pursued.“With hope extinct, and brow composed,I marked the present die;Its term of life was nearly closed,Yet it had more than I.“But thou, though to the world’s new hourThou come with aspect marred,Shorn of the joy, the bloom, the power,Which best befits its bard;“Though more than half thy years be past,And spent thy youthful prime;Though, round thy firmer manhood cast,Hang weeds of our sad time“Whereof thy youth felt all the spell,And traversed all the shade,—Though late, though dimmed, though weak, yet tellHope to a world new-made!“Help it to fill that deep desire,The want which crazed our brain,Consumed our soul with thirst like fire,Immedicable pain;“Which to the wilderness drove outOur life, to Alpine snow,And palsied all our word with doubt,And all our work with woe.“What still of strength is left, employ,This end to help attain:One common wave of thought and joyLifting mankind again!”—The vision ended. I awokeAs out of sleep, and noVoice moved: only the torrent brokeThe silence, far below.Soft darkness on the turf did lie;Solemn, o’er hut and wood,In the yet star-sown nightly sky,The peak of Jaman stood.Still in my soul the voice I heardOf Obermann! AwayI turned; by some vague impulse stirred,Along the rocks of Naye,—Past Sonchaud’s piny flanks I gaze,And the blanched summit bareOf Malatrait, to where in hazeThe Valais opens fair,And the domed Velan, with his snows,Behind the upcrowding hills,Doth all the heavenly opening closeWhich the Rhone’s murmur fills;And glorious there, without a sound,Across the glimmering lake,High in the Valais-depth profound,I saw the morning break.

Glion? Ah! twenty years, it cuts[28]All meaning from a name!White houses prank where once were huts;Glion, but not the same!

And yet I know not! All unchangedThe turf, the pines, the sky!The hills in their old order ranged;The lake, with Chillon by;

And ’neath those chestnut-trees, where stiffAnd stony mounts the way,The crackling husk-heaps burn, as ifI left them yesterday.

Across the valley, on that slope,The huts of Avant shine;Its pines, under their branches, opeWays for the pasturing kine.

Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare,Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass,Invite to rest the traveller thereBefore he climb the pass,—

The gentian-flowered pass, its crown[29]With yellow spires aflame;Whence drops the path to Allière down,And walls where Byron came;[30]

By their green river, who doth changeHis birth-name just below,Orchard and croft and full-stored grangeNursed by his pastoral flow.

But stop! to fetch back thoughts that strayBeyond this gracious bound,The cone of Jaman, pale and gray,See, in the blue profound!

Ah, Jaman! delicately tallAbove his sun-warmed firs,—What thoughts to me his rocks recall,What memories he stirs!

And who but thou must be, in truth,Obermann! with me here?Thou master of my wandering youth,But left this many a year!

Yes, I forget the world’s work wrought,Its warfare waged with pain:An eremite with thee, in thoughtOnce more I slip my chain,—

And to thy mountain chalet come,And lie beside its door,And hear the wild bee’s Alpine hum,And thy sad, tranquil lore.

Again I feel the words inspireTheir mournful calm; serene,Yet tinged with infinite desireFor all thatmighthave been,—

The harmony from which man swervedMade his life’s rule once more;The universal order served,Earth happier than before.

—While thus I mused, night gently ranDown over hill and wood.Then, still and sudden, ObermannOn the grass near me stood.

Those pensive features well I knew,—On my mind, years before,Imaged so oft, imaged so true!—A shepherd’s garb he wore;

A mountain flower was in his hand,A book was in his breast.Bent on my face, with gaze which scannedMy soul, his eyes did rest.

“And is it thou,” he cried, “so longHeld by the world which weLoved not, who turnest from the throngBack to thy youth and me?

“And from thy world, with heart opprest,Choosest thounowto turn?Ah me! we anchorites read things best,Clearest their course discern!

“Thou fled’st me when the ungenial earth,Man’s work-place, lay in gloom:Return’st thou in her hour of birth,Of hopes and hearts in bloom?

“Perceiv’st thou not the change of day?Ah! Carry back thy ken,What, some two thousand years! SurveyThe world as it was then.

“Like ours it looked in outward air.Its head was clear and true,Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare,No pause its action knew;

“Stout was its arm, each thew and boneSeemed puissant and alive:But, ah! its heart, its heart was stone,And so it could not thrive!

“On that hard Pagan world, disgustAnd secret loathing fell;Deep weariness and sated lustMade human life a hell.

“In his cool hall, with haggard eyes,The Roman noble lay;He drove abroad, in furious guise,Along the Appian Way.

“He made a feast, drank fierce and fast,And crowned his hair with flowers;No easier nor no quicker passedThe impracticable hours.

“The brooding East with awe beheldHer impious younger world.The Roman tempest swelled and swelled,And on her head was hurled.

“The East bowed low before the blastIn patient, deep disdain;She let the legions thunder past,And plunged in thought again.

“So well she mused, a morning brokeAcross her spirit gray;A conquering, new-born joy awoke,And filled her life with day.

“‘Poor world!’ she cried, ‘so deep accurst,That runn’st from pole to poleTo seek a draught to slake thy thirst.—Go, seek it in thy soul!’

“She heard it, the victorious West,In crown and sword arrayed;She felt the void which mined her breast,She shivered and obeyed.

“She vailed her eagles, snapped her sword,And laid her sceptre down;Her stately purple she abhorred,And her imperial crown.

“She broke her flutes, she stopped her sports,Her artists could not please.She tore her books, she shut her courts,She fled her palaces.

“Lust of the eye, and pride of life,She left it all behind,And hurried, torn with inward strife,The wilderness to find.

“Tears washed the trouble from her face;She changed into a child;’Mid weeds and wrecks she stood,—a placeOf ruin,—but she smiled!

“Oh, had I lived in that great day,How had its glory newFilled earth and heaven, and caught awayMy ravished spirit too!

“No thoughts that to the world belongHad stood against the waveOf love which set so deep and strongFrom Christ’s then open grave.

“No cloister-floor of humid stoneHad been too cold for me;For me no Eastern desert loneHad been too far to flee.

“No lonely life had passed too slow,When I could hourly scanUpon his cross, with head sunk low,That nailed, thorn-crownèd Man;“Could see the Mother with the ChildWhose tender winning artsHave to his little arms beguiledSo many wounded hearts!

“And centuries came, and ran their course;And, unspent all that time,Still, still went forth that Child’s dear force,And still was at its prime.

“Ay, ages long endured his spanOf life,—’tis true received,—That gracious Child, that thorn-crowned Man!—He lived while we believed.

“While we believed, on earth he went,And open stood his grave;Men called from chamber, church, and tent,And Christ was by to save.

“Now he is dead! Far hence he liesIn the lorn Syrian town;And on his grave, with shining eyes,The Syrian stars look down.

“In vain men still, with hoping new,Regard his death-place dumb,And say the stone is not yet to,And wait for words to come.

“Ah! from that silent sacred landOf sun, and arid stone,And crumbling wall, and sultry sand,Comes now one word alone!

“From David’s lips that word did roll;’Tis true and living yet,—No man can save his brother’s soul,Nor pay his brother’s debt.

“Alone, self-poised, henceforward manMust labor; must resignHis all too human creeds, and scanSimply the way divine;

“But slow that tide of common thought,Which bathed our life, retired;Slow, slow the old world wore to naught,And pulse by pulse expired.

“Its frame yet stood without a breach,When blood and warmth were fled;And still it spake its wonted speech,But every word was dead.

“And oh! we cried, that on this corseMight fall a freshening storm!Rive its dry bones, and with new forceA new-sprung world inform!

“—Down came the storm! O’er France it passedIn sheets of scathing fire.All Europe felt that fiery blast,And shook as it rushed by her.

“Down came the storm! In ruins fellThe worn-out world we knew.It passed, that elemental swell:Again appeared the blue;

“The sun shone in the new-washed sky.—And what from heaven saw he?Blocks of the past, like icebergs high,Float on a rolling sea!

“Upon them plies the race of manAll it before endeavored:‘Ye live,’ I cried, ‘ye work and plan,And know not ye are severed!

“‘Poor fragments of a broken world,Whereon men pitch their tent!Why were ye too to death not hurledWhen your world’s day was spent?

“‘That glow of central fire is doneWhich with its fusing flameKnit all your parts, and kept you one;But ye, ye are the same!

“‘The past, its mask of union on,Had ceased to live and thrive:The past, its mask of union gone,Say, is it more alive?

“‘Your creeds are dead, your rites are dead,Your social order too.Where tarries he, the Power who said,—See, I make all things new?

“‘The millions suffer still, and grieve.And what can helpers healWith old-world cures men half believeFor woes they wholly feel?

“‘And yet men have such need of joy!But joy whose grounds are true,And joy that should all hearts employAs when the past was new.

“‘Ah! not the emotion of that past,Its common hope, were vain!Some new such hope must dawn at last,Or man must toss in pain.

“‘But now the old is out of date,The new is not yet born.And who can bealoneelate,While the world lies forlorn?’

“Then to the wilderness I fled.There among Alpine snowsAnd pastoral huts I hid my head,And sought and found repose.

“It was not yet the appointed hour.Sad, patient, and resigned,I watched the crocus fade and flower,I felt the sun and wind.

“The day I lived in was not mine:Man gets no second day.In dreams I saw the future shine,But ah! I could not stay!

“Action I had not, followers, fame.I passed obscure, alone.The after-world forgets my name,Nor do I wish it known.

“Composed to bear, I lived and died,And knew my life was vain.With fate I murmur not, nor chide.At Sèvres by the Seine

“(If Paris that brief flight allow)My humble tomb explore!It bears:Eternity, be thouMy refuge!and no more.

“But thou, whom fellowship of moodDid make from haunts of strifeCome to my mountain solitude,And learn my frustrate life;

“O thou, who, ere thy flying spanWas past of cheerful youth,Didst find the solitary man,And love his cheerless truth,—

“Despair not thou as I despaired,Nor be cold gloom thy prison!Forward the gracious hours have fared,And see! the sun is risen!

“He breaks the winter of the past;A green, new earth appears.Millions, whose life in ice lay fast,Have thoughts and smiles and tears.

“What though there still need effort, strife?Though much be still unwon?Yet warm it mounts, the hour of life;Death’s frozen hour is done.

“The world’s great order dawns in sheenAfter long darkness rude,Divinelier imaged, clearer seen,With happier zeal pursued.

“With hope extinct, and brow composed,I marked the present die;Its term of life was nearly closed,Yet it had more than I.

“But thou, though to the world’s new hourThou come with aspect marred,Shorn of the joy, the bloom, the power,Which best befits its bard;

“Though more than half thy years be past,And spent thy youthful prime;Though, round thy firmer manhood cast,Hang weeds of our sad time

“Whereof thy youth felt all the spell,And traversed all the shade,—Though late, though dimmed, though weak, yet tellHope to a world new-made!

“Help it to fill that deep desire,The want which crazed our brain,Consumed our soul with thirst like fire,Immedicable pain;

“Which to the wilderness drove outOur life, to Alpine snow,And palsied all our word with doubt,And all our work with woe.

“What still of strength is left, employ,This end to help attain:One common wave of thought and joyLifting mankind again!”

—The vision ended. I awokeAs out of sleep, and noVoice moved: only the torrent brokeThe silence, far below.

Soft darkness on the turf did lie;Solemn, o’er hut and wood,In the yet star-sown nightly sky,The peak of Jaman stood.

Still in my soul the voice I heardOf Obermann! AwayI turned; by some vague impulse stirred,Along the rocks of Naye,—

Past Sonchaud’s piny flanks I gaze,And the blanched summit bareOf Malatrait, to where in hazeThe Valais opens fair,

And the domed Velan, with his snows,Behind the upcrowding hills,Doth all the heavenly opening closeWhich the Rhone’s murmur fills;

And glorious there, without a sound,Across the glimmering lake,High in the Valais-depth profound,I saw the morning break.

Note[1],Page2.Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen.The name Europe (Εὐρώπη,the wide prospect) probably describes the appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the muddy fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or Mæander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them.

Note[1],Page2.

Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen.

The name Europe (Εὐρώπη,the wide prospect) probably describes the appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the muddy fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or Mæander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them.

Note[2],Page 8.Mycerinus.“After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He abhorred his father’s courses, and judged his subjects more justly than any of their kings had done. To him there came an oracle from the city of Buto, to the effect that he was to live but six years longer, and to die in the seventh year from that time.”—Herodotus.

Note[2],Page 8.

Mycerinus.

“After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He abhorred his father’s courses, and judged his subjects more justly than any of their kings had done. To him there came an oracle from the city of Buto, to the effect that he was to live but six years longer, and to die in the seventh year from that time.”—Herodotus.

Note[3],Page 37.Stagirius.Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom addressed three books, and of whom those books give an account. They will be found in the first volume of the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom’s works.

Note[3],Page 37.

Stagirius.

Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom addressed three books, and of whom those books give an account. They will be found in the first volume of the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom’s works.

Note[4],Page 51.That wayside inn we left to-day.Those who have been long familiar with the English Lake Country will find no difficulty in recalling, from the description in the text, the roadside inn at Wythburn, on the descent from Dunmail Raise towards Keswick; its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago; and the passage over the Wythburn Fells to Watendlath.

Note[4],Page 51.

That wayside inn we left to-day.

Those who have been long familiar with the English Lake Country will find no difficulty in recalling, from the description in the text, the roadside inn at Wythburn, on the descent from Dunmail Raise towards Keswick; its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago; and the passage over the Wythburn Fells to Watendlath.

Note[5],Page 59.Sohrab and Rustum.The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John Malcolm’s “History of Persia,” as follows:—“The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum’s early amours. He had left his mother, and sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, whose armies he commanded; and soon obtained a renown beyond that of all contemporary heroes but his father. He had carried death and dismay into the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest warriors of that country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last that hero resolved to do under a feigned name. They met three times. The first time, they parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the advantage; the second, the youth obtained a victory, but granted life to his unknown father; the third was fatal to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangs of death, warned his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by parental woes, and bade him dread the rage of the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain his son Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as death to the aged hero; and when he recovered from a trance, he called in despair for proofs of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth tore open his mail, and showed his father a seal which his mother had placed on his arm when she discovered to him the secret of his birth, and bade him seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite frantic: he cursed himself, attempting to put an end to his existence, and was only prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab’s death, he burned his tents and all his goods, and carried the corpse to Seistan, where it was interred; the army of Turan was, agreeably to the last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross the Oxus unmolested. To reconcile us to the improbability of this tale, we are informed that Rustum could have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of Sohrab had written to him her child was a daughter, fearing to lose her darling infant if she revealed the truth; and Rustum, as before stated, fought under a feigned name, an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those days.”

Note[5],Page 59.

Sohrab and Rustum.

The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John Malcolm’s “History of Persia,” as follows:—

“The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum’s early amours. He had left his mother, and sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, whose armies he commanded; and soon obtained a renown beyond that of all contemporary heroes but his father. He had carried death and dismay into the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest warriors of that country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last that hero resolved to do under a feigned name. They met three times. The first time, they parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the advantage; the second, the youth obtained a victory, but granted life to his unknown father; the third was fatal to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangs of death, warned his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by parental woes, and bade him dread the rage of the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain his son Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as death to the aged hero; and when he recovered from a trance, he called in despair for proofs of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth tore open his mail, and showed his father a seal which his mother had placed on his arm when she discovered to him the secret of his birth, and bade him seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite frantic: he cursed himself, attempting to put an end to his existence, and was only prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab’s death, he burned his tents and all his goods, and carried the corpse to Seistan, where it was interred; the army of Turan was, agreeably to the last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross the Oxus unmolested. To reconcile us to the improbability of this tale, we are informed that Rustum could have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of Sohrab had written to him her child was a daughter, fearing to lose her darling infant if she revealed the truth; and Rustum, as before stated, fought under a feigned name, an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those days.”

Note[6],Page 94.Balder Dead.“Balder the Good having been tormented with terrible dreams, indicating that his life was in great peril, communicated them to the assembled Æsir, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger. Then Frigga exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron and all other metals, as well as from stones, earths, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to Balder. When this was done, it became a favorite pastime of the Æsir, at their meetings, to get Balder to stand up and serve them as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes; for, do they what they would, none of them could harm him, and this was regarded by all as a great honor shown to Balder. But when Loki beheld the scene, he was sorely vexed that Balder was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the Æsir were doing at their meetings. She replied, that they were throwing darts and stones at Balder without being able to hurt him.“‘Ay,’ said Frigga, ’neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, for I have exacted an oath from all of them.’“‘What!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘have all things sworn to spare Balder?’“‘All things,’ replied Frigga, ‘except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from.’“As soon as Loki heard this, he went away, and, resuming his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled. There he found Hödur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his blindness; and going up to him said, ‘Why dost thou not also throw something at Balder?’“‘Because I am blind,’ answered Hödur, ‘and see not where Balder is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw with.’“‘Come, then,’ said Loki, ‘do like the rest, and show honor to Balder by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the place where he stands.’“Hödur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance of Loki, darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless.”—Edda.

Note[6],Page 94.

Balder Dead.

“Balder the Good having been tormented with terrible dreams, indicating that his life was in great peril, communicated them to the assembled Æsir, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger. Then Frigga exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron and all other metals, as well as from stones, earths, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to Balder. When this was done, it became a favorite pastime of the Æsir, at their meetings, to get Balder to stand up and serve them as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes; for, do they what they would, none of them could harm him, and this was regarded by all as a great honor shown to Balder. But when Loki beheld the scene, he was sorely vexed that Balder was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the Æsir were doing at their meetings. She replied, that they were throwing darts and stones at Balder without being able to hurt him.

“‘Ay,’ said Frigga, ’neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, for I have exacted an oath from all of them.’

“‘What!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘have all things sworn to spare Balder?’

“‘All things,’ replied Frigga, ‘except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from.’

“As soon as Loki heard this, he went away, and, resuming his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled. There he found Hödur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his blindness; and going up to him said, ‘Why dost thou not also throw something at Balder?’“‘Because I am blind,’ answered Hödur, ‘and see not where Balder is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw with.’

“‘Come, then,’ said Loki, ‘do like the rest, and show honor to Balder by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the place where he stands.’

“Hödur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance of Loki, darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless.”—Edda.

Note[7],Page 131.Tristram and Iseult.“In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who at this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became expert in all knightly exercises. The king of Ireland, at Tristram’s solicitations, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on King Marc. The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter’s confidante a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of her nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult, on their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its influence, during the remainder of their lives, regulated the affections and destiny of the lovers.“After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews.—Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall on account of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White Hands. He married her, more out of gratitude than love. Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits.“Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and to his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he dispatched a confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to accompany him to Brittany,” etc.—Dunlop’sHistory of Fiction.

Note[7],Page 131.

Tristram and Iseult.

“In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who at this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became expert in all knightly exercises. The king of Ireland, at Tristram’s solicitations, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on King Marc. The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter’s confidante a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of her nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult, on their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its influence, during the remainder of their lives, regulated the affections and destiny of the lovers.

“After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews.—Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall on account of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White Hands. He married her, more out of gratitude than love. Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits.

“Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and to his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he dispatched a confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to accompany him to Brittany,” etc.—Dunlop’sHistory of Fiction.

Note[8],Page 167.That son of Italy who tried to blow.Giacopone di Todi.

Note[8],Page 167.

That son of Italy who tried to blow.

Giacopone di Todi.

Note[9],Page 172.Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.Gilbert de la Porrée, at the Council of Rheims in 1148.

Note[9],Page 172.

Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.

Gilbert de la Porrée, at the Council of Rheims in 1148.

Note[10],Page 173.Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried.The Montanists.

Note[10],Page 173.

Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried.

The Montanists.

Note[11],Page 174.Monica.See St. Augustine’s “Confessions,” book ix. chapter 11.

Note[11],Page 174.

Monica.

See St. Augustine’s “Confessions,” book ix. chapter 11.

Note[12],Page 175.My Marguerite smiles upon the strand.See, among “Early Poems,” the poem called “A Memory-Picture,” p. 23.

Note[12],Page 175.

My Marguerite smiles upon the strand.

See, among “Early Poems,” the poem called “A Memory-Picture,” p. 23.

Note[13],Page 199.The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field.Orion, the Wild Huntsman of Greek legend, and in this capacity appearing in both earth and sky.

Note[13],Page 199.

The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field.

Orion, the Wild Huntsman of Greek legend, and in this capacity appearing in both earth and sky.

Note[14],Page 200.O’er the sun-reddened western straits.Erytheia, the legendary region around the Pillars of Hercules, probably took its name from the redness of the west under which the Greeks saw it.

Note[14],Page 200.

O’er the sun-reddened western straits.

Erytheia, the legendary region around the Pillars of Hercules, probably took its name from the redness of the west under which the Greeks saw it.

Note[15],Page 222.Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat.Thegentiana lutea.

Note[15],Page 222.

Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat.

Thegentiana lutea.

Note[16],Page 246.Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth.See the Fragments of Parmenides:—......κοῦραι δʹ ὁδὀν ἡγεμόνευον,ἡλἱαδες κοῦραι, προλιποῦσαι δὠματα νυκτός,εἰς ϕάος............

Note[16],Page 246.

Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth.

See the Fragments of Parmenides:—

......κοῦραι δʹ ὁδὀν ἡγεμόνευον,ἡλἱαδες κοῦραι, προλιποῦσαι δὠματα νυκτός,εἰς ϕάος............

Note[17],Page 291.The Scholar-Gypsy.“There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gypsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gypsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others; that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.”—Glanvil’sVanity of Dogmatizing, 1661.

Note[17],Page 291.

The Scholar-Gypsy.

“There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gypsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gypsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others; that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.”—Glanvil’sVanity of Dogmatizing, 1661.

Note[18],Page 299.Thyrsis.Throughout this poem there is reference to the preceding piece, “The Scholar-Gypsy.”

Note[18],Page 299.

Thyrsis.

Throughout this poem there is reference to the preceding piece, “The Scholar-Gypsy.”

Note[19],Page 305.Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing.Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in reaping corn, and to put them to death if he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon himself the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradition was, like theLinus-song, one of the early plaintive strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn-reapers. Other traditions represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph who exacted from him an oath to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, and was struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, raised him to heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place from which he ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices. SeeServius,Comment. in Virgil. Bucol., v. 20 and viii. 68.

Note[19],Page 305.

Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing.

Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in reaping corn, and to put them to death if he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon himself the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradition was, like theLinus-song, one of the early plaintive strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn-reapers. Other traditions represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph who exacted from him an oath to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, and was struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, raised him to heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place from which he ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices. SeeServius,Comment. in Virgil. Bucol., v. 20 and viii. 68.

Note[20],Page 312.Ah! where is he, who should have come.The author’s brother, William Delafield Arnold, Director of Public Instruction in the Punjab, and author of “Oakfield, or Fellowship in the East,” died at Gibraltar, on his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859.

Note[20],Page 312.

Ah! where is he, who should have come.

The author’s brother, William Delafield Arnold, Director of Public Instruction in the Punjab, and author of “Oakfield, or Fellowship in the East,” died at Gibraltar, on his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859.

Note[21],Page 313.So moonlit, saw me once of yore.See the poem, “A Summer Night,” p. 278.

Note[21],Page 313.

So moonlit, saw me once of yore.

See the poem, “A Summer Night,” p. 278.

Note[22],Page 313.My brother! and thine early lot.See Note 20.

Note[22],Page 313.

My brother! and thine early lot.

See Note 20.

Note[23],Page 317.I saw the meeting of twoGifted women.Charlotte Brontë and Harriet Martineau.

Note[23],Page 317.

I saw the meeting of twoGifted women.

Charlotte Brontë and Harriet Martineau.

Note[24],Page 320.Whose too bold dying song.See the last lines written by Emily Brontë, in “Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.”

Note[24],Page 320.

Whose too bold dying song.

See the last lines written by Emily Brontë, in “Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.”

Note[25],Page 334.Goethe too had been there.SeeHarzreise im Winter, in Goethe’sGedichte.

Note[25],Page 334.

Goethe too had been there.

SeeHarzreise im Winter, in Goethe’sGedichte.

Note[26],Page 342.The author ofObermann, Étienne Pivert de Senancour, has little celebrity in France, his own country; and out of France he is almost unknown. But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work,Obermann, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest.Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the Seminary of St. Sulpice; broke away from the seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married; returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only:Éternité, deviens mon asile!The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with more famous and fortunate authors of his own day,—Chateaubriand and Madame de Staël,—are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and thoughObermann, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it is with them; of all writers, he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinizing. His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces by which modern life is and has been impelled lives in the letters ofObermann; the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new world which our own time is but now fully bringing to light,—all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high.BesidesObermann, there is one other of Senancour’s works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting: its title isLibres Méditations d’un Solitaire Inconnu.

Note[26],Page 342.

The author ofObermann, Étienne Pivert de Senancour, has little celebrity in France, his own country; and out of France he is almost unknown. But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work,Obermann, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest.

Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the Seminary of St. Sulpice; broke away from the seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married; returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only:Éternité, deviens mon asile!

The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with more famous and fortunate authors of his own day,—Chateaubriand and Madame de Staël,—are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and thoughObermann, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it is with them; of all writers, he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinizing. His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces by which modern life is and has been impelled lives in the letters ofObermann; the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new world which our own time is but now fully bringing to light,—all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high.

BesidesObermann, there is one other of Senancour’s works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting: its title isLibres Méditations d’un Solitaire Inconnu.

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