"What, were ye born to beAn hour or half's delight,And so to bid good-night?'Twas pity Nature brought ye forthMerely to show your worth,And lose you quite.
"But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne'er so brave:And after they have shown their prideLike you, awhile, they glideInto the grave."*
— * `Palgrave', p. 89. —
Much like this last piece in import, and scarcely inferior to it in execution, is `My life is like the summer rose' of Richard Henry Wilde, which is familiar to every one.
Paul Hamilton Hayne's `The Red and the White Rose' (`Poems', pp. 231-232) is an interesting dialogue, which the author concludes by making the former an "earthly queen" and the latter a "heaven-bound votaress".
Mrs. Browning's `A Lay of the Early Rose' shows that we are not to strive "for the dole of praise."
To ——, with a Rose
I asked my heart to say [1]Some word whose worth my love's devoir might payUpon my Lady's natal day.
Then said my heart to me:`Learn from the rhyme that now shall come to theeWhat fits thy Love most lovingly.'
This gift that learning shows;For, as a rhyme unto its rhyme-twin goes,I send a rose unto a Rose.
____ Philadelphia, 1876.
Notes: To ——, with a Rose
This poem was sent to Mrs. Gibson Peacock, of Philadelphia, who was one of Mr. Lanier's kindest and most appreciative friends. The poet's letters to Mr. and Mrs. Peacock have recently been published in `The Atlantic' (see `Thayer' in `Bibliography').
Of the numerous rose-compliments in English I can here specify but a few.One of the prettiest is that by Henry Constable (`Saintsbury', p. 113):
"My Lady's presence makes the Roses red,Because to see her lips they blush for shame."
Carew's compliment is hardly equal to his morals (`Gosse', p. 101):
"Ask me no more where Jove bestows,When June is past, the fading rose;For in your beauty's orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep."
Few better things have been written than this, the second stanza of Jonson's`Drink to me only with thine eyes' (`Gosse', p. 80):
"I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not withered be.But thou thereon did'st only breathe,And sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee."*
Even more felicitous, perhaps, is Waller's `Go, lovely rose!' which is at once a compliment and a moral (`Gosse', p. 134):
"Go, lovely roseTell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.
"Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.
"Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired;Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.
"Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee;How small a part of time they shareThat are so wond'rous sweet and fair."
Browning's `Women and Roses' should also be mentioned, and Mrs. Browning's translation of Sappho's lovely `Song of the Rose'.
— * The fact that Jonson here translates a prose love-letter of Philostratus, the Greek sophist, may detract from the originality but not the beauty of his poem. —
Uncle Jim's Baptist Revival Hymn
By Sidney and Clifford Lanier
SOLO. — Sin's rooster's crowed, Ole Mahster's riz, [1]De sleepin'-time is pas';Wake up dem lazy Baptissis,CHORUS. — Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,Dey's mightily in de grass.
Ole Mahster's blowed de mornin' horn,He's blowed a powerful blas';O Baptis' come, come hoe de corn,You's mightily in de grass, grass,You's mightily in de grass.
De Meth'dis team's done hitched; O fool, [11]De day's a-breakin' fas';Gear up dat lean ole Baptis' mule,Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,Dey's mightily in de grass.
De workmen's few an' mons'rous slow,De cotton's sheddin' fas';Whoop, look, jes' look at de Baptis' row,Hit's mightily in de grass, grass,Hit's mightily in de grass.
De jay-bird squeal to de mockin'-bird: "Stop! [21]Don' gimme none o' yo' sass;Better sing one song for de Baptis' crop,Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,Dey's mightily in de grass."
And de ole crow croak: "Don' work, no, no;"But de fiel'-lark say, "Yaas, yaas,An' I spec' you mighty glad, you debblish crow,Dat de Baptissis's in de grass, grass,Dat de Baptissis's in de grass!"
Lord, thunder us up to de plowin'-match, [31]Lord, peerten de hoein' fas',Yea, Lord, hab mussy on de Baptis' patch,Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,Dey's mightily in de grass.
____ 1876.
Notes: Uncle Jim's Baptist Revival Hymn
I think that the following note, prefixed by the authors to their poem, sufficiently explains what is to me one of their best humorous pieces:
"Not long ago a certain Georgia cotton-planter, driven to desperation by awaking each morning to find that the grass had quite outgrown the cotton overnight, and was likely to choke it, in defiance of his lazy freedmen's hoes and ploughs, set the whole State in a laugh by exclaiming to a group of fellow-sufferers: `It's all stuff about Cincinnatus leaving the plough to go into politics "for patriotism"; he was just a-runnin' from grass!'
"This state of things — when the delicate young rootlets of the cotton are struggling against the hardier multitudes of the grass-suckers — is universally described in plantation parlance by the phrase `in the grass'; and Uncle Jim appears to have found in it so much similarity to the condition of his own (`Baptis'') church, overrun, as it was, by the cares of this world, that he has embodied it in the refrain of a revival hymn such as the colored improvisator of the South not infrequently constructs from his daily surroundings. He has drawn all the ideas of his stanzas from the early morning phenomena of those critical weeks when the loud plantation-horn is blown before daylight, in order to rouse all hands for a long day's fight against the common enemy of cotton-planting mankind.
"In addition to these exegetical commentaries the Northern reader probably needs to be informed that the phrase `peerten up' means substantially `to spur up', and is an active form of the adjective `peert' (probably a corruption of `pert'), which is so common in the South, and which has much the signification of `smart' in New England, as e.g., a `peert' horse, in antithesis to a `sorry' — i.e., poor, mean, lazy one."
The Mocking-bird
Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray [1]That o'er the general leafage boldly grew,He summ'd the woods in song; or typic drewThe watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismayOf languid doves when long their lovers stray,And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dewAt morn in brake or bosky avenue.What e'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.Then down he shot, bounced airily alongThe sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made songMidflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again. [11]Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:How may the death of that dull insect beThe life of yon trim Shakspere on the tree?
____ 1877.
Notes: The Mocking-bird
Besides this sonnet Mr. Lanier wrote a longer `To Our Mocking-bird', consisting of three sonnets, and `Bob', a charming account, in prose, of the life and death of the bird apostrophized.
In his `Birds and Poets' (Boston, 1877), Mr. John Burroughs saysthat he knows of only two noteworthy poetical tributes to the mocking-bird,those by Whitman and by Wilde, both of which he quotes.But since the appearance of his book many poems have been writtento the mocking-bird, several of which are of enduring worth.Indeed, several noteworthy poems had been publishedbefore the appearance of Mr. Burroughs's essay, as will appearfrom the list below. In a search of two days I foundthirty-two different authors paying tribute to our marvelous singer:Julia Bacon (see J. W. Davidson's `Living Writers of the South'.New York: Carleton, 1869), St. L. L. Carter (ib.), Edna P. Clarke(`Century', 24. 391, July, 1893), Fortunatus Crosby (`Davidson', l.c.),J. R. Drake (Duyckinck's `Cyclopaedia of American Literature'.New York, 1855), R. T. W. Duke, Jr. (`Southern Bivouac', 2. 631, March, 1887),W. T. Dumas (`The Golden Day and Miscellaneous Poems', Philadelphia, 1893),F. (`Southern Literary Messenger', Richmond, Va., 5. 523, August, 1839),H. L. Flash (`Davidson', l.c.), Va. Gentleman (`Harper's Magazine',15. 566, September, 1857), Caroline Gilman (May's `American Female Poets',Philadelphia, 1865), Hannah F. Gould (`Davidson', l.c.),Paul Granald (`So. Lit. Mes.', 8, 508, August, 1842),P. H. Hayne (`Poems', Boston, 1882: two), W. H. Hayne (`Century', 24. 676,September, 1893), C. W. Hubner (`Poems and Essays', New York, 1881),C. Lanier (`Sunday-school Times', Phila., July 8, 1893),S. Lanier (two, as above cited), Gen. Edwin G. Lee (`Southern Metropolis',Baltimore, 1869), A. B. Meek (in his `Songs and Poems of the South',New York, 1857), W. Mitchell (`Scribner's Magazine', 11. 171, December, 1875),Nugator (`So. Lit. Mes.', 4. 356, June, 1838), C. J. O'Malley(`So. Bivouac', 2. 698, April, 1887), Albert Pike (Stedman & Hutchinson's`Amer. Lit.', New York, 1891, vol. 6), D. Robinson (`Century', 24. 480,July, 1893), Clinton Scollard (`Pictures in Song', New York, 1884),H. J. Stockard (`The Century', xlviii. 898, Oct., 1894),T (`So. Lit. Mes.', 11. 117, February, 1845), Maurice Thompson(`Poems', Boston, 1892: several; also `Lippincott's Magazine', 32. 624,December, 1883), L. V. (`So. Lit. Mes.', 10. 414, July, 1844),Walt Whitman (`Burroughs', l.c., also in Whitman's `Poems'), R. H. Wilde(`Burroughs', l.c., and Stedman & Hutchinson's `Am. Lit.', vol. 5).
Roughly speaking, the poems may be divided into two classes — first those that, as in the Indian legend cited below, make out the mocking-bird only or chiefly a thief and thing of evil, and second those that find him, though a borrower, original and great. The former view, fortunately upheld by few, is strikingly set forth in Granald's `The Mock-bird and the Sparrow'. After describing minutely the various songs of the mocking-bird and emphasizing that they all come from other birds, the author gives the dialogue between the mock-bird and the sparrow. The former taunted the latter and insisted on his singing; and
"The sparrow cock'd a knowing eye,And made him this most tart reply —`You steal from all and call it wit,But I prefer my simple "twit".'"
But the latter view is espoused by most of the writers mentioned, notably and nobly by Drake, the Haynes, the Laniers, Lee, Meek, and Thompson, the poet-laureate of the mocking-bird, whose poems should be read by every lover of nature and especially of the mocking-bird. As Thompson's tributes are all too long for quotation, I give here Meek's, in the hope that I may rescue it from the long oblivion of an out-of-print. My attention was called to it by my friend, Dr. C. H. Ross, to whom every reader will be indebted along with myself. It runs as follows:
"From the vale, what music ringing,Fills the bosom of the night;On the sense, entranced, flingingSpells of witchery and delight!O'er magnolia, lime and cedar,From yon locust-top, it swells,Like the chant of serenader,Or the rhymes of silver bells!Listen! dearest, listen to it!Sweeter sounds were never heard!'Tis the song of that wild poet —Mime and minstrel — Mocking-bird.
"See him, swinging in his glory,On yon topmost bending limb!Carolling his amorous story,Like some wild crusader's hymn!Now it faints in tones deliciousAs the first low vow of love!Now it bursts in swells capricious,All the moonlit vale above!Listen! dearest, etc.
"Why is't thus, this sylvan PetrarchPours all night his serenade?'Tis for some proud woodland Laura,His sad sonnets all are made!But he changes now his measure —Gladness bubbling from his mouth —Jest and gibe, and mimic pleasure —Winged Anacreon of the South!Listen! dearest, etc.
"Bird of music, wit and gladness,Troubadour of sunny climes,Disenchanter of all sadness, —Would thine art were in my rhymes.O'er the heart that's beating by me,I would weave a spell divine;Is there aught she could deny me,Drinking in such strains as thine?Listen! dearest, etc."
As is well known, the mocking-bird is often called the American nightingale. As to their relative merits as singers, here is the judgment of one that has heard both birds, Professor James A. Harrison (`The Critic', New York, 2. 284, December 13, 1884): "Well, it is my honest opinion that philomel will not compare with the singer of the South in sweetness, versatility, passion, or lyrical beauty. The mocking-bird — better the echo-bird, with a voice compounded of all sweet sounds, as the blossom of the Chinese olive is compounded of all sweet scents — is a pure lyrist; its throat is a lyre — Aeolian, capricious, many-stringed; as its name suggests, it is a polyglot mime, a bird linguist, a feathered Mezzofanti singing all the bird languages; yet over and above all this, with a something of its own that cannot be described." The mocking-bird speaks for himself in Thompson's `To an English Nightingale':
"What do you think of me?Do I sing by rote?Or by note?Have I a parrot's echo-throat?Oh no! I caught my strainsFrom Nature's freshest veins.
. . . . .
"HeA match for me!No more than a wren or a chickadee!Mine is the voice of the young and strong,Mine the soul of the brave and free!"
This self-appreciation is confirmed by the greatest authority on birds, Audubon: "There is probably no bird in the world that possesses all the musical qualifications of this king of song, who has derived all from Nature's self. Yes, reader, all!"
It will be interesting and instructive to compare the tributes to the mocking-bird with Keats's `Ode to a Nightingale', Shelley's `To a Skylark', and Wordsworth's `To the Skylark'.
Aside from Audubon's `Birds of America' and Ridgway's`Manual of North American Birds', the student may consult with profitBurroughs's `Birds and Poets', Thompson's `In the Haunts of the Mocking-bird'(`The Atlantic', 54. 620, November, 1884), various articlesby Olive Thorne Miller in `The Atlantic' (vol. 54 on), and Winterfield's`The Mocking-bird, an Indian Legend' (`The American Whig Review',New York, 1. 497, May, 1845).
14. Wilde compares the mocking-bird to Yorick and to Jacques; Meek, to Petrarch; Lanier, to Keats, in `To Our Mocking-bird', as does Wm. H. Hayne:
"Each golden note of music greetsThe listening leaves divinely stirred,As if the vanished soul of KeatsHad found its new birth in a bird."
Song of the Chattahoochee
Out of the hills of Habersham, [1]Down the valleys of Hall,I hurry amain to reach the plain,Run the rapid and leap the fall,Split at the rock and together again,Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,And flee from folly on every sideWith a lover's pain to attain the plainFar from the hills of Habersham,Far from the valleys of Hall.
All down the hills of Habersham, [11]All through the valleys of Hall,The rushes cried `Abide, abide,'The willful waterweeds held me thrall,The laving laurel turned my tide,The ferns and the fondling grass said `Stay,'The dewberry dipped for to work delay,And the little reeds sighed `Abide, abide,Here in the hills of Habersham,Here in the valleys of Hall.'
High o'er the hills of Habersham, [21]Veiling the valleys of Hall,The hickory told me manifoldFair tales of shade, the poplar tallWrought me her shadowy self to hold,The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,Said, `Pass not, so cold, these manifoldDeep shades of the hills of Habersham,These glades in the valleys of Hall.'
And oft in the hills of Habersham, [31]And oft in the valleys of Hall,The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stoneDid bar me of passage with friendly brawl,And many a luminous jewel lone— Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,Ruby, garnet, and amethyst —Made lures with the lights of streaming stoneIn the clefts of the hills of Habersham,In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
But oh, not the hills of Habersham, [41]And oh, not the valleys of HallAvail: I am fain for to water the plain.Downward the voices of Duty call —Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,And the lordly main from beyond the plainCalls o'er the hills of Habersham,Calls through the valleys of Hall.
____ 1877.
Notes: Song of the Chattahoochee
The Chattahoochee River rises in Habersham County, in northeast Georgia, and, intersecting Hall County, flows southwestward to West Point, then southward until it unites with the Flint River at the southwestern extremity of Georgia. The Chattahoochee is about five hundred miles long, and small steamboats can ascend it to Columbus, Ga. Hon. Henry R. Jackson, of Savannah, Ga., late Minister to Mexico, has an interesting poem `To the Chattahoochee River', in his `Tallulah and Other Poems' (Savannah, Ga., 1850); and Mr. M. V. Moore, in his poem, `Southern Rivers' (`Harper', 66. 464, February, 1883), has a paragraph on the rivers of Georgia, in which he speaks of "the sandy Chattahoochee".
In the `Introduction' (pp. xxxi [Part III], xliv, xlvii [Part IV]) I have spoken of this `Song' as Lanier's most finished nature poem, as the most musical of his productions. "The music of a song easily eludes all analysis and may be dissipated by a critic's breath, but let us try to catch the means by which the effect is in part produced. In five stanzas, of ten lines each, alliteration occurs in all save twelve lines. In eleven of these twelve lines internal rhyme occurs, sometimes joining the parts of a line, sometimes uniting successive lines. Syzygy is used for the same purpose. Of the letters occurring in the poem about one-fifth are liquids and about one-twelfth are sibilants. The effect of the whole is musical beyond description. It sings itself and yet nowhere sacrifices the thought" (Kent).
Another way to test the beauty of `The Song of the Chattahoochee' is to compare it with other kindred poems. There are many stream-songs in English, several of which are very pretty, but there is, I think, but one rival to our `Song', and that is Tennyson's `The Brook'. Even so careful a critic as Mr. Ward says that `The Song of the Chattahoochee' "strikes a higher key, and is scarcely less musical." It will be instructive, too, to compare Lanier's poem with Southey's `The Cataract of Lodore' (see `Gates', p. 25), which exhibits considerable talent, if not inspiration; with P. H. Hayne's `The Meadow Brook', which is simple and sweet; and with Wordsworth's `Brook! whose society the Poet seeks', which is grave and elevated. Professor Kent suggests as interesting analogues Poe's `Ulalume' and Buchanan Read's `Bay of Naples'; and, if the student cares to extend his list, he should read the stream-songs by Bryant, Mary Ainge De Vere (`Century', 21. 283, December, 1891), Longfellow, Weir Mitchell (`Atlantic', 65. 629, May, 1890), Clinton Scollard (`Lippincott', 50. 226, August, 1892), etc., etc.
The Revenge of Hamish
It was three slim does and a ten-tined buck in the bracken lay; [1]And all of a sudden the sinister smell of a man,Awaft on a wind-shift, wavered and ranDown the hill-side and sifted along through the bracken and passed that way.
Then Nan got a-tremble at nostril; she was the daintiest doe;In the print of her velvet flank on the velvet fernShe reared, and rounded her ears in turn.Then the buck leapt up, and his head as a king's to a crown did go
Full high in the breeze, and he stood as if Death had the form of a deer;And the two slim does long lazily stretching arose,For their day-dream slowlier came to a close, [11]Till they woke and were still, breath-bound with waiting and wonder and fear.
Then Alan the huntsman sprang over the hillock, the hounds shot by,The does and the ten-tined buck made a marvelous bound,The hounds swept after with never a sound,But Alan loud winded his horn in sign that the quarry was nigh.
For at dawn of that day proud Maclean of Lochbuy to the hunt had waxed wild,And he cursed at old Alan till Alan fared off with the houndsFor to drive him the deer to the lower glen-grounds:"I will kill a red deer," quoth Maclean, "in the sight of the wifeand the child."
So gayly he paced with the wife and the child to his chosen stand; [21]But he hurried tall Hamish the henchman ahead: "Go turn," —Cried Maclean — "if the deer seek to cross to the burn,Do thou turn them to me: nor fail, lest thy back be red as thy hand."
Now hard-fortuned Hamish, half blown of his breath with the heightof the hill,Was white in the face when the ten-tined buck and the doesDrew leaping to burn-ward; huskily roseHis shouts, and his nether lip twitched, and his legs were o'er-weakfor his will.
So the deer darted lightly by Hamish and bounded away to the burn.But Maclean never bating his watch tarried waiting below.Still Hamish hung heavy with fear for to go [31]All the space of an hour; then he went, and his face was greenish and stern,
And his eye sat back in the socket, and shrunken the eyeballs shone,As withdrawn from a vision of deeds it were shame to see."Now, now, grim henchman, what is't with thee?"Brake Maclean, and his wrath rose red as a beacon the wind hath upblown.
"Three does and a ten-tined buck made out," spoke Hamish, full mild,"And I ran for to turn, but my breath it was blown, and they passed;I was weak, for ye called ere I broke me my fast."Cried Maclean: "Now a ten-tined buck in the sight of the wife and the child
I had killed if the gluttonous kern had not wrought mea snail's own wrong!" [41]Then he sounded, and down came kinsmen and clansmen all:"Ten blows, for ten tine, on his back let fall,And reckon no stroke if the blood follow not at the bite of thong!"
So Hamish made bare, and took him his strokes; at the last he smiled."Now I'll to the burn," quoth Maclean, "for it still may be,If a slimmer-paunched henchman will hurry with me,I shall kill me the ten-tined buck for a gift to the wife and the child!"
Then the clansmen departed, by this path and that; and over the hillSped Maclean with an outward wrath for an inward shame;And that place of the lashing full quiet became; [51]And the wife and the child stood sad; and bloody-backed Hamish sat still.
But look! red Hamish has risen; quick about and about turns he."There is none betwixt me and the crag-top!" he screams under breath.Then, livid as Lazarus lately from death,He snatches the child from the mother, and clambers the crag toward the sea.
Now the mother drops breath; she is dumb, and her heart goes dead for a space,Till the motherhood, mistress of death, shrieks, shrieks through the glen,And that place of the lashing is live with men,And Maclean, and the gillie that told him, dash up in a desperate race.
Not a breath's time for asking; an eye-glance revealsall the tale untold. [61]They follow mad Hamish afar up the crag toward the sea,And the lady cries: "Clansmen, run for a fee! —Yon castle and lands to the two first hands that shall hook him and hold
Fast Hamish back from the brink!" — and ever she flies up the steep,And the clansmen pant, and they sweat, and they jostle and strain.But, mother, 'tis vain; but, father, 'tis vain;Stern Hamish stands bold on the brink, and dangles the child o'er the deep.
Now a faintness falls on the men that run, and they all stand still.And the wife prays Hamish as if he were God, on her knees,Crying: "Hamish! O Hamish! but please, but please [71]For to spare him!" and Hamish still dangles the child, with a wavering will.
On a sudden he turns; with a sea-hawk scream, and a gibe, and a song,Cries: "So; I will spare ye the child if, in sight of ye all,Ten blows on Maclean's bare back shall fall,And ye reckon no stroke if the blood follow not at the bite of the thong!"
Then Maclean he set hardly his tooth to his lip that his tooth was red,Breathed short for a space, said: "Nay, but it never shall be!Let me hurl off the damnable hound in the sea!"But the wife: "Can Hamish go fish us the child from the sea, if dead?
"Say yea! — Let them lash ME, Hamish?" — "Nay!" —"Husband, the lashing will heal; [81]But, oh, who will heal me the bonny sweet bairn in his grave?Could ye cure me my heart with the death of a knave?Quick! Love! I will bare thee — so — kneel!" Then Maclean 'gan slowlyto kneel
With never a word, till presently downward he jerked to the earth.Then the henchman — he that smote Hamish — would tremble and lag;"Strike, hard!" quoth Hamish, full stern, from the crag;Then he struck him, and "One!" sang Hamish, and danced with the childin his mirth.
And no man spake beside Hamish; he counted each stroke with a song.When the last stroke fell, then he moved him a pace down the height,And he held forth the child in the heartaching sight [91]Of the mother, and looked all pitiful grave, as repenting a wrong.
And there as the motherly arms stretched out with the thanksgiving prayer —And there as the mother crept up with a fearful swift pace,Till her finger nigh felt of the bairnie's face —In a flash fierce Hamish turned round and lifted the child in the air,
And sprang with the child in his arms from the horrible height in the sea,Shrill screeching, "Revenge!" in the wind-rush; and pallid Maclean,Age-feeble with anger and impotent pain,Crawled up on the crag, and lay flat, and locked hold of dead rootsof a tree —
And gazed hungrily o'er, and the blood from his backdrip-dripped in the brine, [101]And a sea-hawk flung down a skeleton fish as he flew,And the mother stared white on the waste of blue,And the wind drove a cloud to seaward, and the sun began to shine.
____ Baltimore, 1878.
Notes: The Revenge of Hamish
For an appreciation of this fine poem see `Introduction', pp. xlv, xlvii [Part IV], Mr. J. R. Tait, a friend with whom Mr. Lanier discussed `The Revenge of Hamish', kindly writes me that the author took the plot from William Black's novel, `Macleod of Dare'. In chapter iii. Macleod, of Castle Dare, Mull, tells the story to his London entertainer; but, as the story of the novel is identical with that of the poem, it need not be given here. The novel, I should add, gives the name of the chieftain only, though, as it has a Hamish in another connection, it doubtless gave Lanier this name for the henchman. Previous to the reception of Mr. Tait's letter I supposed that Lanier had borrowed his plot from a poem by Charles Mackay, `Maclaine's Child, A Legend of Lochbuy, Mull', which in plot is identical with Lanier's poem, except that the former begins with the speech of the flogged henchman, here named Evan, and ends by telling us that the bodies were found and that of Evan was hanged on a gallows-tree. The poem is too long for quotation, but may be found in any edition of Mackay or in Garrett's `One Hundred Choice Selections: Number Nine' (Phila., 1887).
17. The Macleans, for centuries one of the most powerful of Scottish clans, have since the fourteenth century lived in Mull, one of the largest of the Hebrides Islands. The two leading branches of the clan were the Macleans of Dowart and the Macleans of Lochbuy, both taking their names from the seats of their castles. The Lochbuy family now spells its name MacLAINE. For a detailed history of the clan see Keltie's `History of the Scottish Highlands, Highland Clans', etc. (London, 1885). Interesting books about Mull and the Hebrides are: Johnson's `A Journey to the Hebrides' and Robert Buchanan's `The Hebrid Isles' (London, 1883). Instructive, too, is Cummin's `Around Mull' (`The Atlantic Monthly', 16. 11-19, 167-176, July, August, 1865).
The Marshes of Glynn
Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven [1]With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-clovenClamber the forks of the multiform boughs, —Emerald twilights, —Virginal shy lights,Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows,When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnadesOf the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods,Of the heavenly woods and glades,That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach withinThe wide sea-marshes of Glynn; — [11]
Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, —Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire,Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves, —Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves,Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood,Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good; —
O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine,While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did shineYe held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine;But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, [21]And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West,And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seemLike a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, —Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak,And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the strokeOf the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low,And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know,And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within,That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of GlynnWill work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore [31]When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore,And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable painDrew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain, —
Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to faceThe vast sweet visage of space.To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn,Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn,For a mete and a markTo the forest-dark: —So: [41]Affable live-oak, leaning low, —Thus — with your favor — soft, with a reverent hand,(Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!)Bending your beauty aside, with a step I standOn the firm-packed sand,FreeBy a world of marsh that borders a world of sea.
Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering bandOf the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land.Inward and outward to northward and southward the beach-lineslinger and curl [51]As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and followsthe firm sweet limbs of a girl.Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight,Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light.And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high?The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky!A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade,Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade,Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain,To the terminal blue of the main.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? [61]Somehow my soul seems suddenly freeFrom the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin,By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and freeYe publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily wonGod out of knowledge and good out of infinite painAnd sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, [71]Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God:I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen fliesIn the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies:By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sodI will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness withinThe range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the seaPours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be:Look how the grace of the sea doth go [81]About and about through the intricate channels that flowHere and there,Everywhere,Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes,And the marsh is meshed with a million veins,That like as with rosy and silvery essences flowIn the rose-and-silver evening glow.Farewell, my lord Sun!The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir; [91]Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr;Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run;And the sea and the marsh are one.
How still the plains of the waters be!The tide is in his ecstasy.The tide is at his highest height:And it is night.
And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleepRoll in on the souls of men,But who will reveal to our waking ken [101]The forms that swim and the shapes that creepUnder the waters of sleep?And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes inOn the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn.
____ Baltimore, 1878.
Notes: The Marshes of Glynn
Although Dr. Callaway noted in his preface the importance of this poem, he did not include it for lack of space. This would seem to indicate that when he published these "Selected Poems" in 1895, "The Marshes of Glynn" had not yet achieved its later prominence as the greatest of Sidney Lanier's poems — as now seems to be the opinion. The setting of the poem is the salt marshes surrounding the coastal city of Brunswick, Georgia, which is in Glynn County — an area well deserving of the fame Lanier has given it — and it was intended as one installment in a series of "Hymns of the Marshes", of which four poems were completed.
The text is taken from the 1916 edition of "Poems of Sidney Lanier".
William Hayes Ward wrote of this poem: "How naturally his large faith in God finds expression in his `Marshes of Glynn'."
Edwin Mims, in his biography of Sidney Lanier, concludes by quoting this poem.He writes:
"His best poems move to the cadence of a tune. . . . Sometimes, as in the `Marshes of Glynn' and in the best parts of `Sunrise', there is a cosmic rhythm that is like unto the rhythmic beating of the heart of God, of which Poe and Lanier have written eloquently."
And later continues:
"Indeed, if one had to rely upon one poem to keep alive the fame of Lanier, he could single out `The Marshes of Glynn' with assurance that there is something so individual and original about it, and that, at the same time, there is such a roll and range of verse in it, that it will surely live not only in American poetry but in English. Here the imagination has taken the place of fancy, the effort to do great things ends in victory, and the melody of the poem corresponds to the exalted thought. It has all the strong points of `Sunrise', with but few of its limitations. There is something of Whitman's virile imagination and Emerson's high spirituality combined with the haunting melody of Poe's best work. Written in 1878, when Lanier was in the full exercise of all his powers, it is the best expression of his genius and one of the few great American poems.
"The background of the poem — as of `Sunrise' — is the forest, the coast and the marshes near Brunswick, Georgia. Early in life Lanier had been thrilled by this wonderful natural scenery, and later visits had the more powerfully impressed his imagination. He is the poet of the marshes as surely as Bryant is of the forests, or Wordsworth of the mountains.
"The poet represents himself as having spent the day in the forest and coming at sunset into full view of the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes. The glooms of the live-oaks and the emerald twilights of the `dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods,' have been as a refuge from the riotous noon-day sun. More than that, in the wildwood privacies and closets of lone desire he has known the passionate pleasure of prayer and the joy of elevated thought. His spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, — he is ready for what Wordsworth calls a `god-like hour'."
Mr. Callaway also treats the poem in Part III of the `Introduction'.
Remonstrance
Opinion, let me alone: I am not thine. [1]Prim Creed, with categoric point, forbearTo feature me my Lord by rule and line.Thou canst not measure Mistress Nature's hair,Not one sweet inch: nay, if thy sight is sharp,Would'st count the strings upon an angel's harp?Forbear, forbear.
Oh let me love my Lord more fathom deepThan there is line to sound with: let me loveMy fellow not as men that mandates keep:Yea, all that's lovable, below, above, [11]That let me love by heart, by heart, because(Free from the penal pressure of the laws)I find it fair.
The tears I weep by day and bitter night,Opinion! for thy sole salt vintage fall.— As morn by morn I rise with fresh delight,Time through my casement cheerily doth call,"Nature is new, 'tis birthday every day,Come feast with me, let no man say me nay,Whate'er befall." [21]
So fare I forth to feast: I sit besideSome brother bright: but, ere good-morrow's passed,Burly Opinion wedging in hath cried,"Thou shalt not sit by us, to break thy fast,Save to our Rubric thou subscribe and swear —`Religion hath blue eyes and yellow hair':She's Saxon, all."
Then, hard a-hungered for my brother's graceTill well-nigh fain to swear his folly's true,In sad dissent I turn my longing face [31]To him that sits on the left: "Brother, — with you?"— "Nay, not with me, save thou subscribe and swear`Religion hath black eyes and raven hair':Nought else is true."
Debarred of banquets that my heart could makeWith every man on every day of life,I homeward turn, my fires of pain to slakeIn deep endearments of a worshiped wife."I love thee well, dear Love," quoth she, "and yetWould that thy creed with mine completely met, [41]As one, not two."
Assassin! Thief! Opinion, 'tis thy work.By Church, by throne, by hearth, by every goodThat's in the Town of Time, I see thee lurk,And e'er some shadow stays where thou hast stood.Thou hand'st sweet Socrates his hemlock sour;Thou sav'st Barabbas in that hideous hour,And stabb'st the good
Deliverer Christ; thou rack'st the souls of men;Thou tossest girls to lions and boys to flames; [51]Thou hew'st Crusader down by Saracen;Thou buildest closets full of secret shames;Indifferent cruel, thou dost blow the blazeRound Ridley or Servetus; all thy daysSmell scorched; I would
— Thou base-born Accident of time and place —Bigot Pretender unto Judgment's throne —Bastard, that claimest with a cunning faceThose rights the true, true Son of Man doth ownBy Love's authority — thou Rebel cold [61]At head of civil wars and quarrels old —Thou Knife on a throne —
I would thou left'st me free, to live with love,And faith, that through the love of love doth findMy Lord's dear presence in the stars above,The clods below, the flesh without, the mindWithin, the bread, the tear, the smile.Opinion, damned Intriguer, gray with guile,Let me alone.
____ Baltimore, 1878-9.
Notes: Remonstrance
This is the first and the greatest of the `Street-cries': see the introductory note to `Life and Song'.
For an interpretation of the poem see `Introduction', pp. xxix [Part III], xlv, xlvii [Part IV].
26, 33. Amusing illustrations of such intolerance may be found in `Jack-knife and Brambles' (Nashville, 1893), by Bishop Atticus G. Haygood, of the Methodist Church, South. One brother, we are told (p. 278), objected to hearing Bishop Haygood in 1859 because of his wearing a beard; while another (p. 281), along in the thirties, voted against licensing Bishop George F. Pierce because his hair was "combed back from his forehead"!
46. For an account of Socrates, the Greek philosopher, poisoned in 399 B.C., see Xenophon's `Memorabilia' and Plato's dialogues.
47. See St. Matthew 27:20.
54. For the burning of Nicholas Ridley, an English Bishop, on October 16, 1555, see Green's `Shorter History of England'. Michael Servetus, a Spanish scientific and theological writer, was burned as a heretic at Geneva, October 27, 1553.
Opposition
Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill, [1]Complain no more; for these, O heart,Direct the random of the willAs rhymes direct the rage of art.
The lute's fixt fret, that runs athwartThe strain and purpose of the string,For governance and nice consortDoth bar his willful wavering.
The dark hath many dear avails;The dark distils divinest dews;The dark is rich with nightingales, [11]With dreams, and with the heavenly Muse.
Bleeding with thorns of petty strife,I'll ease (as lovers do) my smartWith sonnets to my lady LifeWrit red in issues from the heart.
What grace may lie within the chillOf favor frozen fast in scorn!When Good's a-freeze, we call it Ill!This rosy Time is glacier-born.
Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill, [21]Complain thou not, O heart; for theseBank-in the current of the willTo uses, arts, and charities.
____ Baltimore, 1879-80.
Notes: Opposition
As an introduction to this poem I quote a sentence from Dr. Gates's excellent essay: "As we look at the circumstances of his life, let us carry with us the strains of this poem, which interprets the use of crosses, interferences, and attempted thwartings of one's purpose; for the ethical value of Lanier's life and writings can be fully understood only by remembering how much he overcame and how heroically he persisted in manly work in his chosen art through years of such broken health as would have driven most men to the inert, self-indulgent life of an invalid. The superb power of will which he displayed is a lesson as valuable as the noble poems which it illustrates and enforces."
Marsh Song — At Sunset
Over the monstrous shambling sea, [1]Over the Caliban sea,Bright Ariel-cloud, thou lingerest:Oh wait, oh wait, in the warm red West, —Thy Prospero I'll be.
Over the humped and fishy sea,Over the Caliban sea,O cloud in the West, like a thought in the heartOf pardon, loose thy wing, and start,And do a grace for me.
Over the huge and huddling sea, [11]Over the Caliban sea,Bring hither my brother Antonio, — Man, —My injurer: night breaks the ban;Brother, I pardon thee.
____ Baltimore, 1879-80.
Notes: Marsh Song — At Sunset
At the first reading, no doubt, this song appears indistinct, though poetical. On a second reading, however, with Shakespeare's `Tempest' fresh in mind, it seems, as it is, highly artistic; and we wonder at the happy use made of the Shakespearean characters: the gracious, forgiving Prospero, the rightful Duke of Milan; Antonio, his usurping brother, forgiven notwithstanding; Caliban, the savage, deformed, fish-like slave; and Ariel, the ministering spirit of the air.
With `At Sunset' compare Lanier's `Evening Song', another and a more agreeable sunset picture.
A Ballad of Trees and the Master
Into the woods my Master went, [1]Clean forspent, forspent.Into the woods my Master came,Forspent with love and shame.But the olives they were not blind to Him,The little gray leaves were kind to Him:The thorn-tree had a mind to HimWhen into the woods He came.
Out of the woods my Master went,And He was well content.Out of the woods my Master came, [11]Content with death and shame.When Death and Shame would woo Him last,From under the trees they drew Him last:'Twas on a tree they slew Him — lastWhen out of the woods He came.
____ Baltimore, November, 1880.
Notes: A Ballad of Trees and the Master
In the `Introduction' (p. xxxi ff. [Part III]) I have tried to show the intensity and the breadth of Lanier's love of nature in general. President Gates gives a separate section to Lanier's love of trees and plant-life; and, after quoting some lines on the soothing and inspiring companionship of trees, thus speaks of our Ballad: "This ministration of trees to a mind and heart `forspent with shame and grief' finds its culmination in the pathetic lines upon that olive-garden near Jerusalem, which to those of us who have sat within its shade must always seem the most sacred spot on earth. The almost mystic exaltation of the power of poetic sympathy which inspired these intense lines, `Into the Woods my Master went', may impair their religious effect for many devout souls. But to many others this short poem will express most wonderfully that essential human-heartedness in the Son of Man, our Divine Saviour, which made Him one with us in His need of the quiet, sympathetic ministrations of nature — perhaps the heart of the reason why this olive-grove was `the place where He was wont to go' for prayer." See St. Luke 22:39.
For Lanier's other poems on Christ see `Introduction', p. xxxvii f. [Part III].
Sunrise
In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain [1]Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main.The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep;Up-breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep,Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting,Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting,Came to the gates of sleep.Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keepOf the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep,Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling:The gates of sleep fell a-trembling [11]Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter "yes",Shaken with happiness:The gates of sleep stood wide.
I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not abide:I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hideIn your gospelling glooms, — to beAs a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea.
Tell me, sweet burly-bark'd, man-bodied TreeThat mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost knowFrom what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow? [21]They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps.Reason's not one that weeps.What logic of greeting liesBetwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?
O cunning green leaves, little masters! like as ye glossAll the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that embossThe vague blackness of night into pattern and plan,So,(But would I could know, but would I could know,)With your question embroid'ring the dark of the question of man, — [31]So, with your silences purfling this silence of manWhile his cry to the dead for some knowledge is under the ban,Under the ban, —So, ye have wrought meDesigns on the night of our knowledge, — yea, ye have taught me,So,That haply we know somewhat more than we know.
Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms,Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms,Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves, [41]Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves,Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain meWisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me, —Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweetThat advise me of more than they bring, — repeatMe the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought breathFrom the heaven-side bank of the river of death, —Teach me the terms of silence, — preach meThe passion of patience, — sift me, — impeach me, —And there, oh there [51]As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air,Pray me a myriad prayer.
My gossip, the owl, — is it thouThat out of the leaves of the low-hanging bough,As I pass to the beach, art stirred?Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird?
. . . . .
Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the sea,Old chemist, rapt in alchemy,Distilling silence, — lo,That which our father-age had died to know — [61]The menstruum that dissolves all matter — thouHast found it: for this silence, filling nowThe globed clarity of receiving space,This solves us all: man, matter, doubt, disgrace,Death, love, sin, sanity,Must in yon silence clear solution lie.Too clear! That crystal nothing who'll peruse?The blackest night could bring us brighter news.Yet precious qualities of silence hauntRound these vast margins, ministrant. [71]Oh, if thy soul's at latter gasp for space,With trying to breathe no bigger than thy raceJust to be fellow'd, when that thou hast foundNo man with room, or grace enough of boundTo entertain that New thou tell'st, thou art, —'Tis here, 'tis here thou canst unhand thy heartAnd breathe it free, and breathe it free,By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty.
The tide's at full: the marsh with flooded streamsGlimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams. [81]Each winding creek in grave entrancement liesA rhapsody of morning-stars. The skiesShine scant with one forked galaxy, —The marsh brags ten: looped on his breast they lie.
Oh, what if a sound should be made!Oh, what if a bound should be laidTo this bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence a-spring, —To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence the string!I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleamWill break as a bubble o'er-blown in a dream, — [91]Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of night,Over-weighted with stars, over-freighted with light,Over-sated with beauty and silence, will seemBut a bubble that broke in a dream,If a bound of degree to this grace be laid,Or a sound or a motion made.
But no: it is made: list! somewhere, — mystery, where?In the leaves? in the air?In my heart? is a motion made:'Tis a motion of dawn, like a flicker of shade on shade. [101]In the leaves 'tis palpable: low multitudinous stirringUpwinds through the woods; the little ones, softly conferring,Have settled my lord's to be looked for; so; they are still;But the air and my heart and the earth are a-thrill, —And look where the wild duck sails round the bend of the river, —And look where a passionate shiverExpectant is bending the bladesOf the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades, —And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast fleeting,Are beating [111]The dark overhead as my heart beats, — and steady and freeIs the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea —(Run home, little streams,With your lapfuls of stars and dreams), —And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak,For list, down the inshore curve of the creekHow merrily flutters the sail, —And lo, in the East! Will the East unveil?The East is unveiled, the East hath confessedA flush: 'tis dead; 'tis alive: 'tis dead, ere the West [121]Was aware of it: nay, 'tis abiding, 'tis unwithdrawn:Have a care, sweet Heaven! 'Tis Dawn.
Now a dream of a flame through that dream of a flush is uprolled:To the zenith ascending, a dome of undazzling goldIs builded, in shape as a bee-hive, from out of the sea:The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the Bee,The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee,Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-BeeThat shall flash from the hive-hole over the sea.
Yet now the dew-drop, now the morning gray, [131]Shall live their little lucid sober dayEre with the sun their souls exhale away.Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dewThe summ'd morn shines complete as in the blueBig dew-drop of all heaven: with these lit shrinesO'er-silvered to the farthest sea-confines,The sacramental marsh one pious plainOf worship lies. Peace to the ante-reignOf Mary Morning, blissful mother mild,Minded of nought but peace, and of a child. [141]
Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a measureOf motion, — not faster than dateless Olympian leisureMight pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure to pleasure, —The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, unreeling,Forever revealing, revealing, revealing,Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise, — 'tis done!Good-morrow, lord Sun!With several voice, with ascription one,The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soulUnto thee, whence the glittering stream of all morrows doth roll, [151]Cry good and past-good and most heavenly morrow, lord Sun.
O Artisan born in the purple, — Workman Heat, —Parter of passionate atoms that travail to meetAnd be mixed in the death-cold oneness, — innermost GuestAt the marriage of elements, — fellow of publicans, — blestKing in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o'erThe idle skies yet laborest fast evermore, —Thou, in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beatOf the heart of a man, thou Motive, — Laborer Heat:Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea's all news, [161]With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea blues,Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest huesEver shaming the maidens, — lily and roseConfess thee, and each mild flame that glowsIn the clarified virginal bosoms of stones that shine,It is thine, it is thine:
Thou chemist of storms, whether driving the winds a-swirlOr a-flicker the subtiler essences polar that whirlIn the magnet earth, — yea, thou with a storm for a heart,Rent with debate, many-spotted with question, part [171]From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed light,Yet ever the artist, ever more large and brightThan the eye of a man may avail of: — manifold One,I must pass from thy face, I must pass from the face of the Sun:Old Want is awake and agog, every wrinkle a-frown;The worker must pass to his work in the terrible town:But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the thing to be done;I am strong with the strength of my lord the Sun:How dark, how dark soever the race that must needs be run,I am lit with the Sun. [181]
Oh, never the mast-high run of the seasOf traffic shall hide thee,Never the hell-colored smoke of the factoriesHide thee,Never the reek of the time's fen-politicsHide thee,And ever my heart through the night shall with knowledge abide thee,And ever by day shall my spirit, as one that hath tried thee,Labor, at leisure, in art, — till yonder beside theeMy soul shall float, friend Sun, [191]The day being done.
____ Baltimore, December, 1880.
Notes: Sunrise
In the words of Mrs. Lanier, "`Sunrise', Mr. Lanier's latest completed poem, was written while his sun of life seemed fairly at the setting, and the hand which first pencilled its lines had not strength to carry nourishment to the lips." See `Introduction', p. xviii [Part I]. Lanier has two other poems on the same theme, both short: `A Sunrise Song' and `Between Dawn and Sunrise' (entered under `Marsh Hymns').
As already pointed out (`Introduction', pp. xxxi [Part III], xlvii [Part IV]), `Sunrise' shows in a powerful way the delicacy and the comprehensiveness of Lanier's love for nature. True, as I have elsewhere stated (`Introduction', p. xlvi [Part IV]), the poem has some serious limitations, more I think than has `The Marshes of Glynn'; but, despite its shortcomings, `Sunrise' is from an absolute stand-point a great poem; while, if we consider the circumstances under which it was produced, it is, in the words of Professor Kent, "a world-marvel".
Aside from the numerous unapproachable snatches in Shakespeare,* I know of nothing on the subject in English literature comparable to `Sunrise'. Mr. W. W. Story's `Sunrise' is perhaps the closest parallel, and yet it is far inferior to Lanier's, as every reader of the two will admit. If one wishes to make further comparisons, he may find sunrise poems in the following authors: Blake, Cowper, Emerson, Hood, Keats, Longfellow, Southey, Thompson, Willis, etc. I may add that an interesting, though superficial article on `The Poetry of Sunrise and Sunset' may be found in `Chambers's Edinburgh Journal', 22, 234, October 7, 1854.
— * Among others I may cite the following passages:
"Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,"
in `Cymbeline', 2, 3;
"But look the morn in russet mantle cladWalks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill,"
in `Hamlet', 1, 1;
"Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops,"
in `Romeo and Juliet', 3, 5; and
"Full many a glorious morning have I seen" etc.,
`Sonnet xxxiii'. —
3, 13-14. See `Introduction', p. xxxii [Part III], and compare l. 26.
39-53. See `Introduction', p. xxxiii [Part III].
42. I had made the comparison between Lanier and St. Francis before reading Dr. Gates's essay on Lanier, and was delighted to find my judgment confirmed by so competent a critic. Dr. Gates is quite emphatic: "Since St. Francis, no soul has seemed so heavily overcharged with this feeling of brotherhood for all created things." `The Canticle of the Sun', otherwise known as `The Song of the Creatures', may be found in metrical form in Mrs. Oliphant's life of St. Francis (New York, 1870) and in prose in Sabatier's (Scribners, New York, 1894).
54. Lanier has an `Owl against Robin'.
57. See `Introduction', p. xli [Part IV].
80-85. See `Introduction', p. xliii [Part IV].
86-152. See `Introduction', p. xlvii [Part IV]. Mr. F. F. Browne says that in lyric sweetness ll. 86-97 recall the best of Keats and Shelley.
114-115. See `Introduction', p. xliv [Part IV].
127. Lanier has a poem entitled `The Bee'.
134-136. See `Introduction', p. xliii [Part IV].
181. Compare Mrs. Easter's tribute, `Lit with the Sun'.
189-192. See `Introduction', p. xxi [Part I], and compare Cowdin's tribute, `Hopeset and Sunrise', and the closing stanza of Hamlin Garland's:
"While heart's blood ebbed at every breathHe passed life's head-land bleak and dun,Flew through the western gate of DeathAnd took his place beside the sun."
Bibliography
I. Collected Prose Works
Tiger-lilies: A Novel. 16mo, pp. v, 252. Hurd & Houghton, New York, 1867.Out of print.
Florida: Its Scenery, Climate, and History. 12mo, pp. 336.J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, 1876.
The Boy's Froissart. Being Sir John Froissart's Chronicles of Adventure,Battle, and Custom in England, France, Spain, etc. Edited for Boys.Crown 8vo, pp. xxviii, 422. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, 1878.
The Science of English Verse. Crown 8vo, pp. xv, 315.Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, 1880.
The Boy's King Arthur. Being Sir Thomas Malory's History of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Edited for Boys. Crown 8vo, pp. xlviii, 404. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, 1880.