Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,Though always changing, in her aspect mild;From her bare bosom let me take my fill,Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child.O she is fairest in her features wild,Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path;To me by day or night she ever smiled,Though I have mark'd her when none other hath,And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,
Though always changing, in her aspect mild;
From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child.
O she is fairest in her features wild,
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path;
To me by day or night she ever smiled,
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath,
And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.
He observes everything--now 'the billows' melancholy flow' under the bows of the ship, now the whole scene at Zitza:
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below,What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound,And bluest skies that harmonize the whole;Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing soundTells where the volumed cataract doth rollBetween those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below,
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found!
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound,
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole;
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.
This is full of poetic vision:
Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove,And weary waves retire to gleam at rest,How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove,Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast,As winds come lightly whispering from the west,Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene;--Here Harold was received a welcome guest;Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene,For many a job could he from Night's soft presence glean.
Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove,
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest,
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove,
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast,
As winds come lightly whispering from the west,
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene;--
Here Harold was received a welcome guest;
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene,
For many a job could he from Night's soft presence glean.
Feeling himself 'the most unfit of men to herd with man,' he is happy only with Nature:
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!And the waves bound beneath me as a steedThat knows his rider. Welcome to the roar!Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead.Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends,He had the passion and the power to roam;The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,Were unto him companionship; they spakeA mutual language, clearer than the tomeOf his land's tongue, which he would oft forsakeFor Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!And the waves bound beneath me as a steedThat knows his rider. Welcome to the roar!Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to the roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead.
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends,He had the passion and the power to roam;The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,Were unto him companionship; they spakeA mutual language, clearer than the tomeOf his land's tongue, which he would oft forsakeFor Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake.
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;
Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends,
He had the passion and the power to roam;
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,
Were unto him companionship; they spake
A mutual language, clearer than the tome
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake.
Again:
I live not in myself, but I becomePortion of that around me, and to meHigh mountains are a feeling, but the humOf human cities torture; I can seeNothing to loathe in Nature save to beA link reluctant in a fleshly chain,Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plainOf ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a partOf me and of my soul, as I of them?Is not the love of these deep in my heartWith a pure passion? Should I not contemnAll objects, if compared with these?
I live not in myself, but I becomePortion of that around me, and to meHigh mountains are a feeling, but the humOf human cities torture; I can seeNothing to loathe in Nature save to beA link reluctant in a fleshly chain,Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plainOf ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me, and to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture; I can see
Nothing to loathe in Nature save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a partOf me and of my soul, as I of them?Is not the love of these deep in my heartWith a pure passion? Should I not contemnAll objects, if compared with these?
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? Should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these?
Love of Nature was a passion with him, and when he looked
Upon the peopled desert pastAs on a place of agony and strife,
Upon the peopled desert past
As on a place of agony and strife,
mountains gave him a sense of freedom.
He praised the Rhine:
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay,Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay,
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,
Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.
and far more the Alps:
Above me are the Alps,The palaces of Nature, whose vast wallsHave pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,And throned eternity in icy hallsOf cold sublimity, where forms and fallsThe avalanche, the thunderbolt of snow!All that expands the spirit, yet appals,Gather around these summits, as to shewHow Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche, the thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
Gather around these summits, as to shew
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
On the Lake of Geneva:
Ye stars which are the poetry of heaven...All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep,But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep.All heaven and earth are still: from the high hostOf stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast,All is concenter'd in a life intense,Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,But hath a part of being, and a senseOf that which is of all Creator and defence.And this is in the night. Most glorious night,Thou wert not sent for slumber; let me beA sharer in thy fierce and far delight,A portion of the tempest and of thee!How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!And now again 'tis black--and now, the gleeOf the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.But where of ye, oh tempests, is the goal?Are ye like those within the human breast?Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?The morn is up again, the dewy mornWith breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,And living as if earth contained no tomb.
Ye stars which are the poetry of heaven...All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep,But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep.All heaven and earth are still: from the high hostOf stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast,All is concenter'd in a life intense,Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,But hath a part of being, and a senseOf that which is of all Creator and defence.
Ye stars which are the poetry of heaven...
All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep.
All heaven and earth are still: from the high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast,
All is concenter'd in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
And this is in the night. Most glorious night,Thou wert not sent for slumber; let me beA sharer in thy fierce and far delight,A portion of the tempest and of thee!How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!And now again 'tis black--and now, the gleeOf the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.But where of ye, oh tempests, is the goal?Are ye like those within the human breast?Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?
And this is in the night. Most glorious night,
Thou wert not sent for slumber; let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black--and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
But where of ye, oh tempests, is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?
The morn is up again, the dewy mornWith breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,And living as if earth contained no tomb.
The morn is up again, the dewy morn
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contained no tomb.
In Clarens:
Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love,Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought,Thy trees take root in Love; the snows aboveThe very glaciers have his colours caught,And sunset into rose-hues sees them wroughtBy rays which sleep there lovingly; the rocks,The permanent crags, tell here of Love.
Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love,
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought,
Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above
The very glaciers have his colours caught,
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought
By rays which sleep there lovingly; the rocks,
The permanent crags, tell here of Love.
Yet
Ever and anon of griefs subduedThere comes a token like a scorpion's sting,Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;And slight withal may be the things which bringBack on the heart the weight which it would flingAside for ever; it may be a sound,A tone of music, summer's eve or spring,A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound,Striking the electric chain with which we are darkly bound.
Ever and anon of griefs subdued
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever; it may be a sound,
A tone of music, summer's eve or spring,
A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain with which we are darkly bound.
The unrest and torment of his own heart he finds reflected in Nature:
The roar of waters! from the headlong heightVelino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;The fall of waters! rapid as the lightThe flashing mass foams, shaking the abyss;The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,And boil in endless torture; while the sweatOf their great agony, wrung out from thisTheir Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jetThat gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,And mounts in spray the skies, and thence againReturns in an unceasing shower, which roundWith its unemptied cloud of gentle rainIs an eternal April to the ground,Making it all one emerald; how profoundThe gulf, and how the giant elementFrom rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,Crushing the cliffs, which downward, worn and rentWith his fierce footsteps, yields in chasms a fearful rent....Horribly beautiful! but, on the vergeFrom side to side, beneath the glittering morn,An Iris sits amidst the infernal surge,Like Hope upon a deathbed.
The roar of waters! from the headlong height
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;
The fall of waters! rapid as the light
The flashing mass foams, shaking the abyss;
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,
And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain
Is an eternal April to the ground,
Making it all one emerald; how profound
The gulf, and how the giant element
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,
Crushing the cliffs, which downward, worn and rent
With his fierce footsteps, yields in chasms a fearful rent....
Horribly beautiful! but, on the verge
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
An Iris sits amidst the infernal surge,
Like Hope upon a deathbed.
The 'enormous skeleton' of Rome impresses him most by moonlight:
When the rising moon begins to climbIts topmost arch, and gently pauses there;When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,And the low night breeze waves along the air!
When the rising moon begins to climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,
And the low night breeze waves along the air!
Underlying all his varying moods is this note:
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,There is a rapture on the lonely shore,There is society, where none intrudes,By the deep sea, and music in its roar:I love not man the less, but Nature more,From these our interviews, in which I stealFrom all I may be, or have been before,To mingle with the Universe and feelWhat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
The sea, the sky with its stars and clouds, and the mountains, are his passion:
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;Man marks the earth with ruin--his controlStops with the shore; upon the watery plainThe wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remainA shadow of man's ravage, save his own,When, for a moment, like a drop of rainHe sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.(Childe Harold.)The day at last has broken. What a nightHath usher'd it! How beautiful in heaven!Though varied with a transitory storm,More beautiful in that variety!...And can the sun so rise,So bright, so rolling back the clouds intoVapours more lovely than the unclouded sky,With golden pinnacles and snowy mountains,And billows purpler than the ocean's, makingIn heaven a glorious mockery of the earth.(Sardanapalus.)
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;Man marks the earth with ruin--his controlStops with the shore; upon the watery plainThe wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remainA shadow of man's ravage, save his own,When, for a moment, like a drop of rainHe sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.(Childe Harold.)
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.
(Childe Harold.)
The day at last has broken. What a nightHath usher'd it! How beautiful in heaven!Though varied with a transitory storm,More beautiful in that variety!...And can the sun so rise,So bright, so rolling back the clouds intoVapours more lovely than the unclouded sky,With golden pinnacles and snowy mountains,And billows purpler than the ocean's, makingIn heaven a glorious mockery of the earth.(Sardanapalus.)
The day at last has broken. What a night
Hath usher'd it! How beautiful in heaven!
Though varied with a transitory storm,
More beautiful in that variety!...
And can the sun so rise,
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into
Vapours more lovely than the unclouded sky,
With golden pinnacles and snowy mountains,
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth.
(Sardanapalus.)
He had loved the Scotch Highlands in youth:
Amidst Nature's native scenes,Loved to the last, whatever intervenesBetween us and our childhood's sympathyWhich still reverts to what first caught the eye.He who first met the Highlands' swelling blueWill love each peak that shews a kindred hue,Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace.(The Island.)
Amidst Nature's native scenes,
Loved to the last, whatever intervenes
Between us and our childhood's sympathy
Which still reverts to what first caught the eye.
He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue
Will love each peak that shews a kindred hue,
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace.
(The Island.)
and inThe Islandhe says:
How often we forget all time, when lone,Admiring Nature's universal throne,Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intenseReply of hers to our intelligence!Live not the stars and mountains? Are the wavesWithout a spirit? Are the dropping caresWithout a feeling in their silent tears?No, no; they woo and clasp us to their spheres,Dissolve this clog and clod of clay beforeIts hour, and merge our soul in the great shore.(The Island.)
How often we forget all time, when lone,
Admiring Nature's universal throne,
Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense
Reply of hers to our intelligence!
Live not the stars and mountains? Are the waves
Without a spirit? Are the dropping cares
Without a feeling in their silent tears?
No, no; they woo and clasp us to their spheres,
Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before
Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore.
(The Island.)
Byron's feeling was thus, like Goethe's inWertherandFaust, a pantheistic sympathy. But there was this great difference between them--Goethe's mind passed through its period of storm and stress, and attained a serene and ripe vision; Byron's never did. Melancholy and misanthropy always mingled with his feelings; he was, in fact, the father of our modern 'world-pain.'
Still more like a brilliant meteor that flashes and is gone was Shelley, the most highly strung of all modern lyrists. With him, too, love of Nature amounted to a passion; but it was with her remote aerial forms that he was most at home. His imagination, a cosmic one, revelling among the spheres, was like Byron's in its preference for the great, wide, and distant; but unlike his in giving first place to the serene and passionless. As Brandes says: 'In this familiarity with the great forms and movements of Nature, Shelley is like Byron; but like him as a fair genius is like a dark one, as Ariel is like the flame-bringing angel of the morning star.'
We see his love for the sea, especially at rest, in the 'Stanzas written in dejection near Naples,' which contain the beautiful line which proved so prophetic of his death:
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright;Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon's transparent might....I see the deep's untrampled floorWith green and purple sea-weeds strewn;I see the waves upon the shoreLike light dissolved, in star showers thrown....Yet now despair itself is mild,Even as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired childAnd weep away the life of careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear,--Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the seaBreathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright;
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might....
I see the deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple sea-weeds strewn;
I see the waves upon the shore
Like light dissolved, in star showers thrown....
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,--
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
In hisEssay on Love, speaking of the irresistible longing for sympathy, he says:
In solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, and the water and the sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which, by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the voice of one beloved singing to you alone.
In solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, and the water and the sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which, by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the voice of one beloved singing to you alone.
As Brandes says: 'His pulses beat in secret sympathy with Nature's. He called plants and animals his dear sisters and brothers, and the words which his wife inscribed upon his tombstone in Rome, "cor cordium," are true of his relation to Nature also.'
The Cloud, with its marvellously vivid personification, is a perfect example of his genius.
It gives the measure of his unlikeness to the more homekeeping imaginations of his contemporaries Wordsworth, Coleridge, Burns, and Moore; and at the same time to Byron, for here there are no morbid reflections; the poem is pervaded by a naive, childlike tone, such as one hears in the old mythologies.
The Cloud:
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowersFrom the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noonday dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their Mother's breastAs she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.I sift the snow on the mountains below,And their great pines groan aghast,And all the night 'tis my pillow whiteWhile I sleep in the arms of the Blast....From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,Over a torrent sea,Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,The mountains its columns be.The triumphal arch through which I march,With hurricane, fire, and snow,When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,Is the million-coloured bow;The Sphere-fire above its soft colours woveWhile the moist earth was laughing below.I am the daughter of Earth and Water,And the nursling of the Sky.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast,
And all the night 'tis my pillow white
While I sleep in the arms of the Blast....
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The Sphere-fire above its soft colours wove
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky.
As Brandes puts it; When the cloud sings thus of the moon:
WhenThat orbed maiden with white fire laden,Whom Mortals call the Moon,Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floorBy the midnight breezes strewn;And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,Which only the angels hear,May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,The Stars peep behind her and peer.
When
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom Mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The Stars peep behind her and peer.
or of--
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
the reader is carried back, by dint of the virgin freshness of the poet's imagination, to the time when the phenomena of Nature were first moulded into mythology.
This kinship to the myth is very clear in the finest of all his poems, theOde to the West Wind, when the poet says to the wind:
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,...Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed.Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean.Angels of rain and lightning, there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Mænad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's height,The locks of the approaching storm.
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,...
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed.
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean.
Angels of rain and lightning, there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm.
He calls the wind the 'breath of Autumn's being,' the one
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe winged seeds.
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds.
And cries to it:
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O uncontrollable!...0 lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowedOne too like thee, tameless, and swift, and proud.Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is;What if my leaves are falling like its own?The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit. Be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth;And by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawakened earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable!...
0 lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee, tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is;
What if my leaves are falling like its own?
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit. Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
His poems are full of this power of inspiring all the elements with life, breathing his own feeling into them, and divining love and sympathy in them; for instance:
The fountains mingle with the river,And the river with the ocean;The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion....See the mountains kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another...And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea.
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the river with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion....
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another...
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea.
and:
I love all thou lovest,Spirit of Delight;The fresh earth in new leaves dressed,And the starry night,Autumn evening and the mornWhen the golden mists are born.I love snow and all the formsOf the radiant frost;I love waves and winds and storms--Everything almostWhich is Nature's, and may beUntainted by man's misery.
I love all thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight;
The fresh earth in new leaves dressed,
And the starry night,
Autumn evening and the morn
When the golden mists are born.
I love snow and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves and winds and storms--
Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.
To Goethe, Byron, and Shelley, this pantheism, universal love, sympathy with Nature in all her forms, was the base of feeling; but both of England's greatest lyrists, dying young, failed to attain perfect harmony of thought and feeling. There always remained a bitter ingredient in their poetry.
Let us now turn to France.
Rousseau discovered the beauty of scenery for France; St Pierre portrayed it poetically, not only inPaul and Virginia, but inChaumiére IndienneandEtudes de la Nature. The science which these two writers lacked, Buffon possessed in a high degree; but he had not the power to delineate Nature and feeling in combination: he lacked insight into the hidden analogies between the movements of the mind and the phenomena of the outer world. Chateaubriand, on the contrary, had this faculty to its full modern extent. It is true that his ego was constantly to the fore, even in dealing with Nature, but his landscapes were full of sympathetic feeling. He had Rousseau's melancholy and unrest, and cared nothing for those 'oppressive masses,' mountains, except as backgrounds; but he was enthusiastic about the scenery which he saw in America, the virgin forests, and the Mississippi--above all, about the sea. His Réné, that life-likefigure, half-passionate, half-blasé, measuring everything by himself, and flung hither and thither by the waves of passion, shewed a lover's devotion to the sea and to Nature generally.[15]'It was not God whom I contemplated on the waves in the magnificence of His works: I saw an unknown woman, and the miracle of his smile, the beauties of the sky, seemed to me disclosed by her breath. I would have bartered eternity for one of her caresses. I pictured her to myself as throbbing behind this veil of the universe which hid her from my eyes. Oh! why was it not in my power to rend the veil and press the idealized woman to my heart, to spend myself on her bosom with the love which is the source of my inspiration, my despair, and my life?'
In subjectivity and dreaminess both Chateaubriand and Lamartine were like the German romanticists, but their fundamental note was theism, not pantheism. The storm of the French Revolution, which made radical changes in religion, as in all other things, was followed by a reaction. Christianity acquired new power and inwardness, and Nature was unceasingly praised as the mirror of the divine idea of creation.
In hisGénie du Christianisme, Chateaubriand said:
The true God, in entering into His Works, has given his immensity to Nature... there is an instinct in man, which puts him in communication with the scenes of Nature.
The true God, in entering into His Works, has given his immensity to Nature... there is an instinct in man, which puts him in communication with the scenes of Nature.
Lamartine was a sentimental dreamer of dreams, a thinker of lofty thoughts which lost themselves in the inexpressible. HisMeditationsshew his ardent though sad worship of Nature; his love of evening, moonlight, and starlight. For instance,L'Isolement:
Ici gronde le fleuve aux vagues écumantes,Il serpente et s'enfonce en un lointain obscur:Là le lac immobile étend ses eaux dormantesOò l'étoile du soir se lève dans l'azur.An sommet de ces monts couronnés de bois sombres,Le crépuscule encore jette un dernier rayon;Et le char vaporeux de la reine des ombresMonte et blanchit déjà les bords de l'horizon.
Ici gronde le fleuve aux vagues écumantes,
Il serpente et s'enfonce en un lointain obscur:
Là le lac immobile étend ses eaux dormantes
Oò l'étoile du soir se lève dans l'azur.
An sommet de ces monts couronnés de bois sombres,
Le crépuscule encore jette un dernier rayon;
Et le char vaporeux de la reine des ombres
Monte et blanchit déjà les bords de l'horizon.
Le Soir:
Le soir ramène le silence....Venus se lève à l'horizon;A mes pieds l'étoile amoureuseDe sa lueur mystérieuseBlanchit les tapis de gazon.De ce hêtre au feuillage sombreJ'entends frissonner les rameaux;On dirait autour des tombeauxQu'on entend voltiger une ombre,Tout-à-coup, détaché des cieux,Un rayon de l'astre nocturne,Glissant sur mon front taciturne,Vient mollement toucher mes yeux.Doux reflet d'un globe de flammeCharmant rayon, que me veux-tu?Viens-tu dans mon sein abattuPorter la lumière à mon âme?Descends-tu pour me révélerDes mondes le divin mystére,Ces secrets cachés dans la sphèreOù le jour va te rappeler?
Le soir ramène le silence....
Venus se lève à l'horizon;
A mes pieds l'étoile amoureuse
De sa lueur mystérieuse
Blanchit les tapis de gazon.
De ce hêtre au feuillage sombre
J'entends frissonner les rameaux;
On dirait autour des tombeaux
Qu'on entend voltiger une ombre,
Tout-à-coup, détaché des cieux,
Un rayon de l'astre nocturne,
Glissant sur mon front taciturne,
Vient mollement toucher mes yeux.
Doux reflet d'un globe de flamme
Charmant rayon, que me veux-tu?
Viens-tu dans mon sein abattu
Porter la lumière à mon âme?
Descends-tu pour me révéler
Des mondes le divin mystére,
Ces secrets cachés dans la sphère
Où le jour va te rappeler?
In the thought of happy past hours, he questions the lake:
Un soir, t'en souvient-il, nous voguions en silence;On n'entendait au loin, sur l'onde et sous les cieux,Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadenceTes flots harmonieux.O lac! rochers muets! grottes! forêt obscure!Vous que le temps épargne ou qu'il peut rajeunirGardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,Au moins le souvenir!...Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupireQue les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit, ou l'on respire,Tout dise: 'ils out aimés!
Un soir, t'en souvient-il, nous voguions en silence;
On n'entendait au loin, sur l'onde et sous les cieux,
Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
Tes flots harmonieux.
O lac! rochers muets! grottes! forêt obscure!
Vous que le temps épargne ou qu'il peut rajeunir
Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
Au moins le souvenir!...
Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire
Que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,
Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit, ou l'on respire,
Tout dise: 'ils out aimés!
La Prièrehas:
Le roi brillant du jour, se couchant dans sa gloire,Descend avec lenteur de son char de victoire;Le nuage éclatant qui le cache à nos yeuxConserve en sillons d'or sa trace dans les cieux,Et d'un reflet de pourpre inonde l'étendue.Comme une lampe d'or dans l'azur suspendue,La lune se balance aux bords de l'horizon;Ses rayons affaiblis dorment sur le gazon,Et le voile des nuits sur les monts se déplie.C'est l'heure, où la nature, un moment recueillie,Entre la nuit qui touche et le jour qui s'enfuitS'élève au créateur du jour et de la nuit,Et semble offrir à Dieu dans son brillant langage,De la création le magnifique hommage.Voilà le sacrifice immense, universelle!L'univers est le temple, et la terre est l'autel;Les cieux en sont le dôme et ses astres sans nombre,Ces feux demi-voilés, pâle ornement de l'ombre,Dans la voûte d'azur avec ordre semés,Sont les sacrés flambeaux pour ce temple allumés...Mais ce temple est sans voix......Mon coeur seul parle dans ce silence--La voix de l'univers c'est mon intelligence.Sur les rayons du soir, sur les ailes du vent,Elle s'élève à Dieu...
Le roi brillant du jour, se couchant dans sa gloire,Descend avec lenteur de son char de victoire;Le nuage éclatant qui le cache à nos yeuxConserve en sillons d'or sa trace dans les cieux,Et d'un reflet de pourpre inonde l'étendue.Comme une lampe d'or dans l'azur suspendue,La lune se balance aux bords de l'horizon;Ses rayons affaiblis dorment sur le gazon,Et le voile des nuits sur les monts se déplie.C'est l'heure, où la nature, un moment recueillie,Entre la nuit qui touche et le jour qui s'enfuitS'élève au créateur du jour et de la nuit,Et semble offrir à Dieu dans son brillant langage,De la création le magnifique hommage.Voilà le sacrifice immense, universelle!L'univers est le temple, et la terre est l'autel;Les cieux en sont le dôme et ses astres sans nombre,Ces feux demi-voilés, pâle ornement de l'ombre,Dans la voûte d'azur avec ordre semés,Sont les sacrés flambeaux pour ce temple allumés...Mais ce temple est sans voix...
Le roi brillant du jour, se couchant dans sa gloire,
Descend avec lenteur de son char de victoire;
Le nuage éclatant qui le cache à nos yeux
Conserve en sillons d'or sa trace dans les cieux,
Et d'un reflet de pourpre inonde l'étendue.
Comme une lampe d'or dans l'azur suspendue,
La lune se balance aux bords de l'horizon;
Ses rayons affaiblis dorment sur le gazon,
Et le voile des nuits sur les monts se déplie.
C'est l'heure, où la nature, un moment recueillie,
Entre la nuit qui touche et le jour qui s'enfuit
S'élève au créateur du jour et de la nuit,
Et semble offrir à Dieu dans son brillant langage,
De la création le magnifique hommage.
Voilà le sacrifice immense, universelle!
L'univers est le temple, et la terre est l'autel;
Les cieux en sont le dôme et ses astres sans nombre,
Ces feux demi-voilés, pâle ornement de l'ombre,
Dans la voûte d'azur avec ordre semés,
Sont les sacrés flambeaux pour ce temple allumés...
Mais ce temple est sans voix...
...Mon coeur seul parle dans ce silence--La voix de l'univers c'est mon intelligence.Sur les rayons du soir, sur les ailes du vent,Elle s'élève à Dieu...
...Mon coeur seul parle dans ce silence--
La voix de l'univers c'est mon intelligence.
Sur les rayons du soir, sur les ailes du vent,
Elle s'élève à Dieu...
Le Golfe de Baia:
Vois-tu comme le flot paisibleSur le rivage vient mourir?Mais déjà l'ombre plus épaisseTombe et brunit les vastes mers;Le bord s'efface, le bruit cesse,Le silence occupe les airs.C'est l'heure où la MélancholieS'assied pensive et recueillieAux bords silencieux des mers.
Vois-tu comme le flot paisible
Sur le rivage vient mourir?
Mais déjà l'ombre plus épaisse
Tombe et brunit les vastes mers;
Le bord s'efface, le bruit cesse,
Le silence occupe les airs.
C'est l'heure où la Mélancholie
S'assied pensive et recueillie
Aux bords silencieux des mers.
The decay of autumn corresponds to his own dolorous feelings:
Oui, dans ces jours d'automne où la nature expire,A ses regards voilés je trouve plus d'attraits;C'est l'adieu d'un ami, c'est le dernier sourireDes lèvres que la mort va fermer pour jamais.
Oui, dans ces jours d'automne où la nature expire,
A ses regards voilés je trouve plus d'attraits;
C'est l'adieu d'un ami, c'est le dernier sourire
Des lèvres que la mort va fermer pour jamais.
This is fromIschia:
Le Soleil va porter le jour à d'autres mondes;Dans l'horizon désert Phébé monte sans bruit,Et jette, en pénétrant les ténébres profondes,Un voile transparent sur le front de la nuit.Voyez du haut des monts ses clartés ondoyantesComme un fleuve de flamme inonder les coteaux,Dormir dans les vallons on glisser sur les pentes,Ou rejaillir au loin du sein brillant des eaux....Doux comme le soupir d'un enfant qui sommeille,Un son vague et plaintif se répand dans les airs....Mortel! ouvre ton âme à ces torrents de vie,Reçois par tous les sens les charmes de la nuit....
Le Soleil va porter le jour à d'autres mondes;
Dans l'horizon désert Phébé monte sans bruit,
Et jette, en pénétrant les ténébres profondes,
Un voile transparent sur le front de la nuit.
Voyez du haut des monts ses clartés ondoyantes
Comme un fleuve de flamme inonder les coteaux,
Dormir dans les vallons on glisser sur les pentes,
Ou rejaillir au loin du sein brillant des eaux....
Doux comme le soupir d'un enfant qui sommeille,
Un son vague et plaintif se répand dans les airs....
Mortel! ouvre ton âme à ces torrents de vie,
Reçois par tous les sens les charmes de la nuit....
He sees the transitoriness of all earthly things reflected in Nature:
L'onde qui baise ce rivage,De quoi se plaint-elle à ses bords?Pourquoi le roseau sur la plage, pourquoi le ruisseau sous l'ombrage,Rendent-ils de tristes accords?De quoi gémit la tourterelle? Tout naist, tout paise.
L'onde qui baise ce rivage,
De quoi se plaint-elle à ses bords?
Pourquoi le roseau sur la plage, pourquoi le ruisseau sous l'ombrage,
Rendent-ils de tristes accords?
De quoi gémit la tourterelle? Tout naist, tout paise.
Such a depth of sympathy and dreamy dolorous reverie was new to France, but Rousseau had broken the ice, and henceforward feeling flowed freely. To Lamartine the theist, as to the pantheists Goethe, Shelley, and Byron, Nature was a friend and lover.
Victor Hugo was of the same mind, but his poetry is clearer and more plastic than Lamartine's. We quote from his finest poems, theFeuilles d'Automne. He was a true lyrist, familiar both with the external life of Nature and the inner life of man. His beautiful 'Ce qu'on entend sur la montagne' has the spirit ofFaust. He imagines himself upon a mountain top, with earth on one side, the sea on the other; and there he hears two voices unlike any ever heard before:
L'une venait des mers, chant de gloire! hymne heureux!C'était la voix des flots qui se parlaient entre eux....Or, comme je l'ai dit, l'Océan magnifiqueEpandait une voix joyeuse et pacifiqueChantant comme la harpe aux temples de Sion,Et louait la beauté de la création.
L'une venait des mers, chant de gloire! hymne heureux!
C'était la voix des flots qui se parlaient entre eux....
Or, comme je l'ai dit, l'Océan magnifique
Epandait une voix joyeuse et pacifique
Chantant comme la harpe aux temples de Sion,
Et louait la beauté de la création.
while from the other voice:
Pleurs et cris! L'injure, l'anatheme....C'était la terre et l'homme qui pleuraient!...L'une disait, Nature! et l'autre, Humanité!
Pleurs et cris! L'injure, l'anatheme....
C'était la terre et l'homme qui pleuraient!...
L'une disait, Nature! et l'autre, Humanité!
The personifications in this poem are beautiful. He, too, like Lamartine, loves sea and stars most of all. These verses fromLes Orientalesremind one of St Augustine:
J'étais seul près des flots par une nuit d'étoiles,Pas un nuage aux cieux; sur les mers pas de voiles,Et les bois et les monts et toute la natureSemblaient interroger dans confus murmureLes flots des mers, les feux du ciel.Et les étoiles d'or, légions infinies,A voix haute, à voix basse, avec mille harmoniesDisaient en inclinant leurs couronnes de feu,Et les flots bleus, que rien gouverne et n'arrête,Disaient en recourbant l'écume de leur crête:C'est le Seigneur Dieu, le Seigneur Dieu!Parfois lorsque tout dort, je m'assieds plein de joieSous le dôme étoilé qui sur nos fronts flamboie;J'écoute si d'en haut il tombe quelque bruit;Et l'heure vainement me frappe de son aileQuand je contemple ému cette fête eternelleQue le ciel rayonnant donne au monde la nuit!Souvent alors j'ai cru que ces soleils de flammeDans ce monde endormi n'échauffaient que mon âme;Qu'à les comprendre seul j'étais prédestiné;Que j'étais, moi, vaine ombre obscure et taciturne,Le roi mystérieuse de la pompe nocturne;Que le ciel pour moi seul s'était illuminé!
J'étais seul près des flots par une nuit d'étoiles,Pas un nuage aux cieux; sur les mers pas de voiles,Et les bois et les monts et toute la natureSemblaient interroger dans confus murmureLes flots des mers, les feux du ciel.Et les étoiles d'or, légions infinies,A voix haute, à voix basse, avec mille harmoniesDisaient en inclinant leurs couronnes de feu,Et les flots bleus, que rien gouverne et n'arrête,Disaient en recourbant l'écume de leur crête:C'est le Seigneur Dieu, le Seigneur Dieu!
J'étais seul près des flots par une nuit d'étoiles,
Pas un nuage aux cieux; sur les mers pas de voiles,
Et les bois et les monts et toute la nature
Semblaient interroger dans confus murmure
Les flots des mers, les feux du ciel.
Et les étoiles d'or, légions infinies,
A voix haute, à voix basse, avec mille harmonies
Disaient en inclinant leurs couronnes de feu,
Et les flots bleus, que rien gouverne et n'arrête,
Disaient en recourbant l'écume de leur crête:
C'est le Seigneur Dieu, le Seigneur Dieu!
Parfois lorsque tout dort, je m'assieds plein de joieSous le dôme étoilé qui sur nos fronts flamboie;J'écoute si d'en haut il tombe quelque bruit;Et l'heure vainement me frappe de son aileQuand je contemple ému cette fête eternelleQue le ciel rayonnant donne au monde la nuit!Souvent alors j'ai cru que ces soleils de flammeDans ce monde endormi n'échauffaient que mon âme;Qu'à les comprendre seul j'étais prédestiné;Que j'étais, moi, vaine ombre obscure et taciturne,Le roi mystérieuse de la pompe nocturne;Que le ciel pour moi seul s'était illuminé!
Parfois lorsque tout dort, je m'assieds plein de joie
Sous le dôme étoilé qui sur nos fronts flamboie;
J'écoute si d'en haut il tombe quelque bruit;
Et l'heure vainement me frappe de son aile
Quand je contemple ému cette fête eternelle
Que le ciel rayonnant donne au monde la nuit!
Souvent alors j'ai cru que ces soleils de flamme
Dans ce monde endormi n'échauffaient que mon âme;
Qu'à les comprendre seul j'étais prédestiné;
Que j'étais, moi, vaine ombre obscure et taciturne,
Le roi mystérieuse de la pompe nocturne;
Que le ciel pour moi seul s'était illuminé!
The necessary condition of delight in Nature is very strikingly given:
Si vous avez en vous, vivantes et pressées,Un monde intérieur d'images, de pensées,De sentimens, d'amour, d'ardente passionPour féconder ce monde, échangez-le sans cesseAvec l'autre univers visible qui vous presse!Mêlez toute votre âme à la création....Que sous nos doigts puissans exhale la nature,Cette immense clavier!
Si vous avez en vous, vivantes et pressées,
Un monde intérieur d'images, de pensées,
De sentimens, d'amour, d'ardente passion
Pour féconder ce monde, échangez-le sans cesse
Avec l'autre univers visible qui vous presse!
Mêlez toute votre âme à la création....
Que sous nos doigts puissans exhale la nature,
Cette immense clavier!
His lyrics are rich in fine scenes from Nature, unrolled in cold but stately periods, and the poetic intuition which always divines the spirit life brought him near to that pantheism which we find in all the greatest English and German poets of his time,[16]and which lay, too, at the root of German romanticism.
Schiller did not possess the intrinsically lyrical genius of Goethe; his strength lay, not in song, but drama, and in a didactic form of epic--the song not of feeling, but of thought.
Descriptions of Nature occur here and there in his epics and dramas; but his feeling for her was chiefly theoretic. Like his contemporaries, he passed through a sentimental period;Eveningshews this, andMelancholy, to Laura:
Laura, a sunrise seems to breakWhere'er thy happy looks may glow....Thy soul--a crystal river passing,Silver clear and sunbeam glassing,Mays into blossom sad autumn by thee:Night and desert, if they spy thee,To gardens laugh--with daylight shine,Lit by those happy smiles of thine!
Laura, a sunrise seems to break
Where'er thy happy looks may glow....
Thy soul--a crystal river passing,
Silver clear and sunbeam glassing,
Mays into blossom sad autumn by thee:
Night and desert, if they spy thee,
To gardens laugh--with daylight shine,
Lit by those happy smiles of thine!
With such ecstatic extravagances contrast the excellent descriptions of Nature full of objective life in his longer poems--for instance, the tumult of Charybdis and the unceasing rain inThe Diver, evening inThe Hostage, and landscape inWilliam TellandThe Walk. In the last, as Julian Schmidt says, the ever varying scenery is made a 'frame for a kind of phenomenology of mankind.'
Flowers of all hue are struggling into glowAlong the blooming fields; yet their sweet strifeMelts into one harmonious concord. Lo!The path allures me through the pastoral greenAnd the wide world of fields! The labouring beeHums round me, and on hesitating wingO'er beds of purple clover, quiveringlyHovers the butterfly. Save these, all lifeSleeps in the glowing sunlight's steady sheen--E'en from the west no breeze the lull'd airs bring.Hark! in the calm aloft I hear the skylark sing.The thicket rustles near, the alders bowDown their green coronals, and as I pass,Waves in the rising wind the silvering grass;Come! day's ambrosial night! receive me nowBeneath the roof by shadowy beeches madeCool-breathing, etc.
Flowers of all hue are struggling into glow
Along the blooming fields; yet their sweet strife
Melts into one harmonious concord. Lo!
The path allures me through the pastoral green
And the wide world of fields! The labouring bee
Hums round me, and on hesitating wing
O'er beds of purple clover, quiveringly
Hovers the butterfly. Save these, all life
Sleeps in the glowing sunlight's steady sheen--
E'en from the west no breeze the lull'd airs bring.
Hark! in the calm aloft I hear the skylark sing.
The thicket rustles near, the alders bow
Down their green coronals, and as I pass,
Waves in the rising wind the silvering grass;
Come! day's ambrosial night! receive me now
Beneath the roof by shadowy beeches made
Cool-breathing, etc.
Schiller's interest in Nature was more a matter of reflection than direct observation; its real tendency was philosophical and ethical. He called Nature naive (he included naturalness in Nature); those who seek her, sentimental; but he overlooked (as we saw in an earlier chapter) the fact that antiquity did not always remain naive, and that not all moderns are sentimental.
As Rousseau's pupil he drew a sharp distinction between Nature and Art, and felt happy in solitude where 'man with his torment does not come,' lying, as he says inThe Bride of Messina, like a child on the bosom of Nature.
In Schiller's sense of the word, perhaps no poet has been more sentimental about Nature than Jean Paul.
He was the humorous and satirical idyllistpar excellence, and laid the scenes of his romances in idyllic surroundings, using the trifling events of daily life to wonderful purpose. There is an almost oriental splendour in his pages, with their audacious metaphors and mixture of ideas. With the exception of Lake Maggiore inTitan, he gives no set descriptions of landscape; but all his references to it, all his sunrises and sunsets, are saturated with the temperament of his characters, and they revel in feeling. They all love Nature, and wander indefatigably about their own countryside, finding the reflection of their feelings in her. There is a constant interweaving of the human soul and the universe; therein lies his pantheistic trait. 'To each man,' he said,[17]'Nature appears different, and the only question is, which is the most beautiful? Nature is for ever becoming flesh for mankind; outer Nature takes a different form in each mind.' Certainly the nature of Jean Paul was differentfrom the Nature of other mortals. Was she more beautiful? He wrote of her in his usual baroque style, with a wealth of thought and feeling, and everywhere the sparkle of genius; but it is all presented in the strangest motley, as exaggerated and unenjoyable as can be. For example, fromSiebenkâs:
I appeared again then on the last evening of the year 1794, on the red waves of which so many bodies, bled to death, were borne away to the ocean of eternity.To the butterfly--proboscis of Siebenkäs, enough honey--cells were still open in every blue thistle-blossom of destiny.When they had passed the gate--that is to say, the un-Palmyra-like ruins of it--the crystal reflecting grotto of the August night stood open and shining above the dark green earth, and the ocean-calm of Nature stayed the wild storm of the human heart. Night was drawing and closing her curtain (a sky full of silent suns, not a breath of breeze moving in it) up above the world, and down beneath it the reaped corn stood in the sheaves without a rustle. The cricket with his one constant song, and a poor old man gathering snails for the snail pits, seemed to be the only things that dwelt in the far-reaching darkness.
I appeared again then on the last evening of the year 1794, on the red waves of which so many bodies, bled to death, were borne away to the ocean of eternity.
To the butterfly--proboscis of Siebenkäs, enough honey--cells were still open in every blue thistle-blossom of destiny.
When they had passed the gate--that is to say, the un-Palmyra-like ruins of it--the crystal reflecting grotto of the August night stood open and shining above the dark green earth, and the ocean-calm of Nature stayed the wild storm of the human heart. Night was drawing and closing her curtain (a sky full of silent suns, not a breath of breeze moving in it) up above the world, and down beneath it the reaped corn stood in the sheaves without a rustle. The cricket with his one constant song, and a poor old man gathering snails for the snail pits, seemed to be the only things that dwelt in the far-reaching darkness.
When it was autumn in his heart:
Above the meadows, where all the flowers were withered and dead; above the fields, where the corn ears waved no more, floated dim phantom forms, all pale and wan, faint pictures of the past. Over the grand eternal woods and hills a biting mist was draped in clinging folds, as if all Nature, trembling into dust, must vanish in its wreaths.... But one bright thought pierced these dark fogs of Nature and the soul, turning them to a white gleaming mist, a dew all glittering with rainbow colours, and gently lighting upon flowers.
Above the meadows, where all the flowers were withered and dead; above the fields, where the corn ears waved no more, floated dim phantom forms, all pale and wan, faint pictures of the past. Over the grand eternal woods and hills a biting mist was draped in clinging folds, as if all Nature, trembling into dust, must vanish in its wreaths.... But one bright thought pierced these dark fogs of Nature and the soul, turning them to a white gleaming mist, a dew all glittering with rainbow colours, and gently lighting upon flowers.
When his married life grew more unhappy, in December:
The heart of our sorrowful Firmian grew sadder yet, as he stood upon this cold, burnt-out hearth-place of Nature.
The heart of our sorrowful Firmian grew sadder yet, as he stood upon this cold, burnt-out hearth-place of Nature.
and in spring
it seemed to him as if his life dwelt, not in a bodily heart, but in some warm and tender tear, as if his heavy-laden soul were expanding and breaking away through some chink in its prison, and melting into a tone of music, a blue ether wave.
it seemed to him as if his life dwelt, not in a bodily heart, but in some warm and tender tear, as if his heavy-laden soul were expanding and breaking away through some chink in its prison, and melting into a tone of music, a blue ether wave.
AndTitanexpresses that inner enfranchisement which Nature bestows upon us:
Exalted Nature! when we see and love thee, we love our fellow-men more warmly, and when we must pity or forget them, thou still remainest with us, reposing before the moist eye like a verdant chain of mountains in the evening red. Ah! before the soul in whose sight the morning dew of its ideals has faded to a cold, grey drizzle ... thou remainest, quickening Nature, with thy flowers and mountains and cataracts, a faithful comforter; and the bleeding son of the gods, cold and speechless, dashes the drop of anguish from his eyes, that they may rest, far and clear, on thy volcanoes, and on thy springs and on thy suns.
Exalted Nature! when we see and love thee, we love our fellow-men more warmly, and when we must pity or forget them, thou still remainest with us, reposing before the moist eye like a verdant chain of mountains in the evening red. Ah! before the soul in whose sight the morning dew of its ideals has faded to a cold, grey drizzle ... thou remainest, quickening Nature, with thy flowers and mountains and cataracts, a faithful comforter; and the bleeding son of the gods, cold and speechless, dashes the drop of anguish from his eyes, that they may rest, far and clear, on thy volcanoes, and on thy springs and on thy suns.
This is sunset in his abstruse artistic handling:
The sun sinks, and the earth closes her great eye like that of a dying god. Then smoke the hills like altars; out of every wood ascends a chorus; the veils of day, the shadows, float around the enkindled transparent tree-tops, and fall upon the gay, gem-like flowers. And the burnished gold of the west throws back a dead gold on the east, and tinges with rosy light the hovering breast of the tremulous lark--the evening bell of Nature.
The sun sinks, and the earth closes her great eye like that of a dying god. Then smoke the hills like altars; out of every wood ascends a chorus; the veils of day, the shadows, float around the enkindled transparent tree-tops, and fall upon the gay, gem-like flowers. And the burnished gold of the west throws back a dead gold on the east, and tinges with rosy light the hovering breast of the tremulous lark--the evening bell of Nature.
And this sunrise:
The flame of the sun now shot up ever nearer to the kindled morning clouds; at length in the heavens, in the brooks and ponds, and in the blooming cups of dew, a hundred suns rose together, while a thousand colours floated over the earth, and one pure dazzling white broke from the sky. It seemed as if an almighty earthquake had forced up from the ocean, yet dripping, a new-created blooming plain, stretching out beyond the bounds of vision, with all its young instincts and powers; the fire of earth glowed beneath the roots of the immense hanging garden, and the fire of heaven poured down its flames and burnt the colours intothe mountain summits and the flowers. Between the porcelain towers of white mountains the coloured blooming heights stood as thrones of the Fruit-Goddess; over the far-spread camp of pleasure blossom-cups and sultry drops were pitched here and there like peopled tents; the ground was inlaid with swarming nurseries of grasses and little hearts, and one heart detached itself after another with wings, or fins, or feelers, from the hot breeding-cell of Nature, and hummed and sucked and smacked its little lips, and sung: and for every little proboscis some blossom-cup of; joy was already open. The darling child of the infinite mother, man, alone stood with bright joyful eyes upon the market-place of the living city of the sun, full of brilliance and noise, and gazed, delighted, around him into all its countless streets; but his eternal mother rested veiled in immensity, and only by the warmth which went to his heart did he feel that he was lying upon hers.
The flame of the sun now shot up ever nearer to the kindled morning clouds; at length in the heavens, in the brooks and ponds, and in the blooming cups of dew, a hundred suns rose together, while a thousand colours floated over the earth, and one pure dazzling white broke from the sky. It seemed as if an almighty earthquake had forced up from the ocean, yet dripping, a new-created blooming plain, stretching out beyond the bounds of vision, with all its young instincts and powers; the fire of earth glowed beneath the roots of the immense hanging garden, and the fire of heaven poured down its flames and burnt the colours intothe mountain summits and the flowers. Between the porcelain towers of white mountains the coloured blooming heights stood as thrones of the Fruit-Goddess; over the far-spread camp of pleasure blossom-cups and sultry drops were pitched here and there like peopled tents; the ground was inlaid with swarming nurseries of grasses and little hearts, and one heart detached itself after another with wings, or fins, or feelers, from the hot breeding-cell of Nature, and hummed and sucked and smacked its little lips, and sung: and for every little proboscis some blossom-cup of; joy was already open. The darling child of the infinite mother, man, alone stood with bright joyful eyes upon the market-place of the living city of the sun, full of brilliance and noise, and gazed, delighted, around him into all its countless streets; but his eternal mother rested veiled in immensity, and only by the warmth which went to his heart did he feel that he was lying upon hers.
For very overflow of thought and imagery and ecstasy of feeling, Jean Paul never achieved a balanced beauty of expression.
The ideal classic standard which Winckelmann and Lessing had laid down--simple and plastic, calm because objective, crystal-clear in thought and expression--and which Goethe and Schiller had sought to realize and imbue with modern ideas, was too strictly limited for the Romanticists. Hyperion's words expressed their taste more accurately: 'O, man is a god when he dreams, a beggar when he thinks!' and they laid stress upon restless movement, fantastic, highly-coloured effects, a crass subjectivity, a reckless licence of the imagination.
Actual and visible things were disregarded; they did not accord with this claim for infinity and the nebulous, for exploring the secret depths of the soul.
It was perhaps a necessary reaction from Goethe's classicism; but it passed like a bad dream, after tending, thanks to its heterogeneous elements, now to the mediæval period, now to that of Storm and Stress, and now to Goethe, Herder, andWinckelmann. It certainly contained germs of good, which have grown and flourished in our own day.
In keeping with its whole character, the Romantic feeling for Nature was subjective and fantastic to excess, mystically enthusiastic, often with a dreamy symbolism at once deep and naive; its inmost core was pantheistic, with a pantheism shading off imperceptibly into mysticism.
AfterWerther, there is perhaps no work of modern fiction in which Nature plays so artistic a part as in Holderlin'sHyperion.
Embittered by life's failure to realize his ideals, he cries: 'But thou art still visible, sun in the sky! Thou art still green, sacred earth! The streams still rush to the sea, and shady trees rustle at noon. The spring's song of joy sings my mortal thoughts to sleep. The abundance of the universe nourishes and satiates my famished being to intoxication.'
This mystical pantheism could not be more clearly expressed than here:
O blessed Nature! I know not how it happens when I lift my eyes to your beauty; but all the joy of the sky is in the tears which I shed before you--a lover before the lady of his love. When the soft waves of the air play round my breast, my whole being is speechless and listens. Absorbed in the blue expanse, I often look up to the ether and down to the holy sea; and it seems as if a kindred spirit opened its arms to me, as if the pain of loneliness were lost in the divine life. To be one with all that lives, in blessed self-forgetfulness to return to the All of Nature, that is the height of thought and bliss--the sacred mountain height, the place of eternal rest, where noon loses its sultriness and thunder its voice, and the rough sea is like the waves in a field of wheat.
O blessed Nature! I know not how it happens when I lift my eyes to your beauty; but all the joy of the sky is in the tears which I shed before you--a lover before the lady of his love. When the soft waves of the air play round my breast, my whole being is speechless and listens. Absorbed in the blue expanse, I often look up to the ether and down to the holy sea; and it seems as if a kindred spirit opened its arms to me, as if the pain of loneliness were lost in the divine life. To be one with all that lives, in blessed self-forgetfulness to return to the All of Nature, that is the height of thought and bliss--the sacred mountain height, the place of eternal rest, where noon loses its sultriness and thunder its voice, and the rough sea is like the waves in a field of wheat.
To such feeling as this the actualities are but fetters, hindering aspiration.
'O, if great Nature be the daughter of a father, is the daughter's heart not his heart? Is not he her deepest feeling? But have I found it? Do I know it?'
He tries to discern the 'soul of Nature,' hears 'the melody of morning light begin with soft notes.' He says to the flower, 'You are my sister,' and to the springs, 'We are of one race': he finds symbolic resemblance between his heart and all the days and seasons: he feels the beauty of the 'land like paradise,' while scarcely ever, except in the poemHeidelberg, giving a clear sketch of scenery. A number of fine comparisons from Nature are scattered through his writings[18]: