REVIEW.
The Culprit Fay, and other Poems; byJoseph Rodman Drake. New York: George Dearborn, Publisher. 1835.
Over the grave of a highly-gifted and a youthful poet, gathers many a delightful and yet saddened reminiscence. It should ever be regarded as a consecrated spot—crowded with associations of no ordinary character—hallowed by the deepest and the tenderest of feelings. It isholyground,—better fitted, it may be, than any other to allure us to reflection,—to summon into active exercise each deep emotion of the heart,—to draw out into living forms of beauty each hidden power, each finer sensibility,—and to leave us, better, purer, nobler, for its warnings and instructions. And yet, why should it be so? The grave even of the young, the gifted, and the beautiful, differs not in outward fashion or adornment, from the many which surround it. It is hollowed out from the same earth with them—closes over the same lifeless and decaying bodies—furnishes the same victim for the worm, the same banquet for corruption. The sculptured stone that marks it, is as soon to sink or crumble as another—the grass grows over it no greener—the steps of the idle andthe thoughtless fall not round it with a lighter tread—and the flower that blooms upon it, is as soon to fade or wither.
The grave of a youthful poet is indeed a holy spot, but it is so not alone in reference to the moldering body it enshrouds, or to the impressive comment that it reads on death. That grave is sacred, rather as a remembrancer of intellect. That body was the outward vesture of a mind. It was the drapery that imprisoned in its folds a restless and a struggling spirit, burning with the fires of heaven, yet amid the gloom of earth, and was thrown aside when tarnished, as unfitted for its purpose. In the departure of that spirit, who can tell our loss. How brilliant, yet how rapid, has been its career. Meteor-like, it has vanished from our sight, while the hopes that we had cherished have gone down for ever.
The volume, whose title we have placed at the commencement of this article, and whose merits we propose to examine with our readers, is a beautiful memorial of departed genius. The perusal of its pages has naturally led us to indulge in those reflections we have hitherto pursued. The memory of Drake—his early and untimely grave—has tended to associate with his, the same sad fate of others. We have thought of Sands, of Wilcox, and of Brainerd. Of the former, it is true, we know but little—nothing more than a few casual examinations of their works afford us. Of the latter, we know more. We delight to speak of him, not only as a poet—and as such he had few equals—but still farther, as a friend. In the first of these characters he has now been long before the public, and has gained from their decisions a conspicuous distinction—a rank higher we believe than his own expectations, although one of strictest justice and commensurate with merit. To us it is a matter of no slight regret, that a mind so richly-gifted, should have garnered up its beauties, and have been so very sparing of its splendid treasures. Brainerd was distrustful of his own abilities. The hope of approbation, was with him no motive to exertion. He cared not to lay bare the workings of a heart, perhaps too warm and sensitive, or to send abroad those finer feelings which might meet no kindred sympathies, and return to him companionless from contact with the world. It was only in those moments given up to the full flow of friendship—to the interchange of sentiments with more intimate associates—that the noblest of his qualities became developed. As a poet, he reminds us forcibly of Burns. His was the same appreciation of the charms of nature—the same exquisitely tempered sensibility—a like generosity of disposition, and as much of poignant wit and versatility. The tribute paid to the memory of Burns, may with equal justice be applied to Brainerd.
“His is that language of the heart,In which the answering heart would speak—Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,Or the smile light the cheek.And his that music to whose toneThe common pulse of man keeps time,In cot or castle’s mirth or moan,In cold or sunny clime.”
“His is that language of the heart,In which the answering heart would speak—Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,Or the smile light the cheek.And his that music to whose toneThe common pulse of man keeps time,In cot or castle’s mirth or moan,In cold or sunny clime.”
“His is that language of the heart,In which the answering heart would speak—Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,Or the smile light the cheek.And his that music to whose toneThe common pulse of man keeps time,In cot or castle’s mirth or moan,In cold or sunny clime.”
“His is that language of the heart,
In which the answering heart would speak—
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light the cheek.
And his that music to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle’s mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.”
When an edition of Drake’s poems, containing many pages hitherto unpublished, was announced as nearly ready for the press, we received the information with great pleasure. We expected much, and we are glad to say our expectations have been realized. The first thing which arrested our attention was the dedication, and it struck us at the time as unusually appropriate. It is a happy testimonial of respect, from a daughter to her father’s friend—to one who, perhaps, above all others, best deserved the appellation. To whom should it have been dedicated, if not to Halleck? To the community at large the loss of such a man as Drake may be regarded as a great calamity,—but to the cause of literature it is still more. It is taking from the latter one of its highest ornaments, and leaving a wide vacancy, which time may never fill. Of his general merits, as a writer, there can be but one opinion. The precise rank to which he is entitled we propose not to examine, or to venture on comparisons with critical minuteness. The exact extent of his abilities, or the results to which his genius might have led him, we would leave as questions to be settled by the taste of his admirers, and proceed to mention some of those peculiar features which stand out in his productions. In our view, his poems are distinguished for uncommon ease of diction, and the richness of their imagery. Over the wide realm of imagination our author seems to hold unlimited control, and to gather from it beauties, which he scatters with profusion. In whatever spot his fancy may detain him he is found at home, lingering around each scene with the familiarity of long acquaintance, and a perfect knowledge of each object and allurement. He is ever changing, too, in the visions he presents us. Now, he is hovering over an ideal land, sweeping forward with a wing, which, like that of the untiring Huma, is not folded upon earth. Now, he leads us forth to gaze upon the witcheries of nature,—to view the gorgeous colorings of her varied landscapes,—to break the silence of her forest solitudes,—to tread the mountain height, or to repose beside the streamlet that runs whimpering at its base. Again, he summons up our energies for a still bolder flight—carries us away to the bright fields of upper regions, onward and still onward, till our world is lost in distance, and we walk upon the star-lit plains of heaven. Anon,
“Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,Or sea-roc rides the blast,”
“Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,Or sea-roc rides the blast,”
“Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,Or sea-roc rides the blast,”
“Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,
Or sea-roc rides the blast,”
he plunges with us far within the bosom of the heaving deep, where the wrath of the storm spirit is unheard—down to the coral towers of “snail-plated” warriors, or around the amber beds of ocean sylphs and mermaids.
But exuberance of fancy, though perhaps the most prominent, is not the only quality inherent in these poems. We have before alluded to the beauty of their rhythm. This we regard as almost faultless. There is a fitness in the choice of each word, and a care in its location, which imparts to every sentence a high finish and proportion. Each line seems flowing onward, with a light and rapid motion, as it were to blend in union with a graceful whole. There are no rough corners that can meet us at the turn of each expression. The eye reposes upon nothing but a surface of unbroken symmetry, and the ear drinks in a music grateful as the murmurs of some meadow stream. We may deny it, if we choose, but there is a “charm in numbers,” and the one who holds it lightly is deficient in his judgment. The profoundest argument that man can frame, or the proudest monument of pure mind that he can offer, derives much of its impressive force from the garb in which it is presented. Unadorned it is the naked statue, modelled thus far by the youthful pupil, and that needs a master’s polish to display it in perfection. The materials for this statue, abstract intellect may, indeed must furnish, but it yet demands the touches of a cultivated taste. That education which has taught us how to reason has done well, but a different knowledge should be added ere we reap its full advantage. He who has cast loose from the firm rock of thought, that his bark may toss on summer seas to fancied shores of pleasure, has exposed himself to shipwreck—but as sad may be the fate of him, who, relying solely on the native strength of his entrenchment, has erected there no battery to render it impregnable. It would be a source of satisfaction, did our time allow the privilege, to trace still farther the idea which we have started, and to make its application to a multitude of cases, but we leave it, with reluctance, to complete our undertaking.
As specimens of graceful diction, and an almost boundless play of fancy, there are many of Drake’s pieces which remind us of the brilliant compositions of another poet—one whose harp has breathed forth strains than which there are none sweeter, and whose life has been one revel around sentiment and song. Who of us can say, whether the young poet of America might not have been to her what Moore is now to Ireland—that he would have loved her with less fervor of devotion, or have sounded forth her praises with a feebler lyre. His would have been a soul to dwell upon her charms with rapture, who when pleading for his parent soil exclaims,
“Shame! that while every mountain, stream and plainHath theme for truth’s proud voice or fancy’s wand,Nonativebard the patriot harp hath ta’en,But left to minstrels of a foreign strand,To sing the beauteous scenes of nature’s loveliest land.”
“Shame! that while every mountain, stream and plainHath theme for truth’s proud voice or fancy’s wand,Nonativebard the patriot harp hath ta’en,But left to minstrels of a foreign strand,To sing the beauteous scenes of nature’s loveliest land.”
“Shame! that while every mountain, stream and plainHath theme for truth’s proud voice or fancy’s wand,Nonativebard the patriot harp hath ta’en,But left to minstrels of a foreign strand,To sing the beauteous scenes of nature’s loveliest land.”
“Shame! that while every mountain, stream and plain
Hath theme for truth’s proud voice or fancy’s wand,
Nonativebard the patriot harp hath ta’en,
But left to minstrels of a foreign strand,
To sing the beauteous scenes of nature’s loveliest land.”
From the numerous pieces which compose the volume, we select theCulprit Fay, as best adapted to exhibit the true merits of ourauthor. It is, to say the least, an elegant production—the purest specimen of ideality that we have ever met with, sustaining in each incident a most bewitching interest. Its very title is enough to kindle the imagination, and to send us wandering amid the bowers of elfin land, reviewing the traditions of our boyhood years. We recall to recollection many of those “old world stories,”—tales of brownies and the bogle burns of Scotland,—of the elves and sprites of merry England, or the mystic Wasser Nixen of the German fable. We trust ourselves with pleasure to that guidance which once more will introduce us to this region of enchantment.
The poem opens with an elegant description of the spot our author has selected for his “spell-bound realm.” It lies beside the waters of the lordly Hudson—a river whose whole shore is rich in scenes of beauty, and many of whose deep receding bays and jutting headlands have derived a lasting interest from the pen of Irving. The time is midnight—we stand upon the summit of Cronest, gazing upon a cloudless sky—every thing around us is now lulled to sweet repose—
“The winds are whist, and the owl is still,The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,And naught is heard on the lonely hill,But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrillOf the gauze-winged katy-did.”
“The winds are whist, and the owl is still,The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,And naught is heard on the lonely hill,But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrillOf the gauze-winged katy-did.”
“The winds are whist, and the owl is still,The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,And naught is heard on the lonely hill,But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrillOf the gauze-winged katy-did.”
“The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
And naught is heard on the lonely hill,
But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katy-did.”
Suddenly the voice of the sentry-elf, awakened from his slumbers, (how he came to be asleep our author does not tell us,) breaks in upon the stillness, as he hastens to announce the dawning of the fairy day—and crowds of tiny Fays fly answering to his summons.
“They come from beds of lichen green,They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;Some on the backs of beetles flyFrom the silver tops of moon-touched trees,Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,And rocked about in the evening breeze;Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest—They had driven him out by elfin power,And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,With glittering ising-stars inlaid;And some had opened the four-o’-clock,And stole within its purple shade.And now they throng the moonlight glade,Above—below—on every side,Their little minim forms arrayedIn the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!”
“They come from beds of lichen green,They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;Some on the backs of beetles flyFrom the silver tops of moon-touched trees,Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,And rocked about in the evening breeze;Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest—They had driven him out by elfin power,And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,With glittering ising-stars inlaid;And some had opened the four-o’-clock,And stole within its purple shade.And now they throng the moonlight glade,Above—below—on every side,Their little minim forms arrayedIn the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!”
“They come from beds of lichen green,They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;Some on the backs of beetles flyFrom the silver tops of moon-touched trees,Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,And rocked about in the evening breeze;Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest—They had driven him out by elfin power,And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,With glittering ising-stars inlaid;And some had opened the four-o’-clock,And stole within its purple shade.And now they throng the moonlight glade,Above—below—on every side,Their little minim forms arrayedIn the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!”
“They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly
From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,
And rocked about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest—
They had driven him out by elfin power,
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,
With glittering ising-stars inlaid;
And some had opened the four-o’-clock,
And stole within its purple shade.
And now they throng the moonlight glade,
Above—below—on every side,
Their little minim forms arrayed
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!”
It is not, however, to the dance or revel that we are invited. No wild gambol is to rivet our attention. We are summoned to the trialof an erring ouphe. Before us stands the throne of judgment, supported on its pillars of the “mottled tortoise shell,” and covered by a curtain of the “tulip’s crimson drapery.” Upon it sits the fairy monarch, surrounded by the nobles of his realm—before him is the culprit Fay. Weighty is the crime alledged against the prisoner. Unmindful of his vestal vow, he has dared to love an earthly maiden. He has
—“left for her his woodland shade;He has lain upon her lip of dew,And sunned him in her eye of blue,Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,Played with the ringlets of her hair,And, nestling on her snowy breast,Forgot the lily-king’s behest.”
—“left for her his woodland shade;He has lain upon her lip of dew,And sunned him in her eye of blue,Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,Played with the ringlets of her hair,And, nestling on her snowy breast,Forgot the lily-king’s behest.”
—“left for her his woodland shade;He has lain upon her lip of dew,And sunned him in her eye of blue,Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,Played with the ringlets of her hair,And, nestling on her snowy breast,Forgot the lily-king’s behest.”
—“left for her his woodland shade;
He has lain upon her lip of dew,
And sunned him in her eye of blue,
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,
Played with the ringlets of her hair,
And, nestling on her snowy breast,
Forgot the lily-king’s behest.”
His condemnation follows. The loveliness and purity of her for whom he had thus sinned, go far to mitigate the punishment to which he is obnoxious—a punishment than which none could be severer or more terrible. His sentence is pronounced.
“Thou shalt seek the beach of sand,Where the water bounds the elfin-land,Thou shalt watch the oozy brineTill the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,Then dart the glistening arch below,And catch a drop from his silver bow.The water-sprites will wield their arms,And dash around, with roar and rave,And vain are the woodland spirits’ charms,They are the imps that rule the wave.Yet trust thee in thy single might,If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,Thou shalt win the warlock fight.”
“Thou shalt seek the beach of sand,Where the water bounds the elfin-land,Thou shalt watch the oozy brineTill the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,Then dart the glistening arch below,And catch a drop from his silver bow.The water-sprites will wield their arms,And dash around, with roar and rave,And vain are the woodland spirits’ charms,They are the imps that rule the wave.Yet trust thee in thy single might,If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,Thou shalt win the warlock fight.”
“Thou shalt seek the beach of sand,Where the water bounds the elfin-land,Thou shalt watch the oozy brineTill the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,Then dart the glistening arch below,And catch a drop from his silver bow.The water-sprites will wield their arms,And dash around, with roar and rave,And vain are the woodland spirits’ charms,They are the imps that rule the wave.Yet trust thee in thy single might,If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,Thou shalt win the warlock fight.”
“Thou shalt seek the beach of sand,
Where the water bounds the elfin-land,
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,
Then dart the glistening arch below,
And catch a drop from his silver bow.
The water-sprites will wield their arms,
And dash around, with roar and rave,
And vain are the woodland spirits’ charms,
They are the imps that rule the wave.
Yet trust thee in thy single might,
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,
Thou shalt win the warlock fight.”
With this explanation of the nature of his penance, we leave the sentenced Fay to enter on his toilsome journey and meet us in its progress at a different quarter.
We have heard often of the circumstances which led to the production of this poem, and of the astonishing rapidity with which it was composed. How this may be we know not. Judging from the beauty of its several parts, and still more from its finish as a whole, it strikes us as the result of long continued labor, polished and perfected with a scrupulous attention. The subject which our author has selected, is one admirably fitted to display his genius. It is one, however, that demands unceasing effort, and requires the constant workings of his brilliant fancy. From the ordinary range of illustration he is certainly excluded, while the path to the attainment of his object is both difficult and devious. He has drawn around himself a magic circle, into which no human form can enter. Nothing earthly is to mingle in the scenes to which he calls us. Each action,in its origin, continuance, and termination, must be fitted to the beings he has chosen for his actors. With this view of his undertaking, we may fear for the result, and watch with much anxiety its full accomplishment. It is not long, however, that we feel this apprehension. We soon discover that our author is prepared for each adventure—that he gains a ready conquest over every opposition, while his flight continues onward with an undiminished ardor.
Here again we are to greet our pilgrim fairy. Long and wearisome have been his wanderings. Hour after hour has he toiled amid the passes of the mountain, and fearful are the perils he has been compelled to meet. He has followed out a dangerous track,
“Through dreary beds of tangled fern,Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,Over the grass and through the brake,Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake,”
“Through dreary beds of tangled fern,Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,Over the grass and through the brake,Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake,”
“Through dreary beds of tangled fern,Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,Over the grass and through the brake,Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake,”
“Through dreary beds of tangled fern,
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,
Over the grass and through the brake,
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake,”
till he has reached the spot appointed for the trial of his courage. He has found the treasure that he sought, protected by the warriors of the deep, and been baffled by their forces in the efforts he has made.
It is in this crisis of affairs that we meet with a deliverance as ingenious as it is successful. It is necessary, for our author’s purpose, that his hero, though thus far defeated, should yet gain his object, and with that intention he has brought him to his present situation. The events which we have compressed into the narrow space of a few lines, have been presented in detail up to the period in which the Fay, driven from his purpose, stood despairing on the river’s brink. It is thus the history continues,—
“He cast a saddened look around,But he felt new joy his bosom swell,When, glittering on the shadowed ground,He saw a purple muscle shell;Thither he ran, and he bent him low,He heaved at the stern, and he heaved at the bow,And he pushed her over the yielding sand,Till he came to the verge of the haunted land.She was as lovely a pleasure boatAs ever fairy had paddled in,For she glowed with purple paint without,And shone with silvery pearl within;A sculler’s notch in the stem he made,An oar he shaped of the bootle blade;Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap,And launched afar on the calm blue deep.”
“He cast a saddened look around,But he felt new joy his bosom swell,When, glittering on the shadowed ground,He saw a purple muscle shell;Thither he ran, and he bent him low,He heaved at the stern, and he heaved at the bow,And he pushed her over the yielding sand,Till he came to the verge of the haunted land.She was as lovely a pleasure boatAs ever fairy had paddled in,For she glowed with purple paint without,And shone with silvery pearl within;A sculler’s notch in the stem he made,An oar he shaped of the bootle blade;Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap,And launched afar on the calm blue deep.”
“He cast a saddened look around,But he felt new joy his bosom swell,When, glittering on the shadowed ground,He saw a purple muscle shell;Thither he ran, and he bent him low,He heaved at the stern, and he heaved at the bow,And he pushed her over the yielding sand,Till he came to the verge of the haunted land.She was as lovely a pleasure boatAs ever fairy had paddled in,For she glowed with purple paint without,And shone with silvery pearl within;A sculler’s notch in the stem he made,An oar he shaped of the bootle blade;Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap,And launched afar on the calm blue deep.”
“He cast a saddened look around,
But he felt new joy his bosom swell,
When, glittering on the shadowed ground,
He saw a purple muscle shell;
Thither he ran, and he bent him low,
He heaved at the stern, and he heaved at the bow,
And he pushed her over the yielding sand,
Till he came to the verge of the haunted land.
She was as lovely a pleasure boat
As ever fairy had paddled in,
For she glowed with purple paint without,
And shone with silvery pearl within;
A sculler’s notch in the stem he made,
An oar he shaped of the bootle blade;
Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap,
And launched afar on the calm blue deep.”
Guarded in this manner from the machinations of his enemies, whose power was bounded by the wave, our adventurer holds on his course uninjured, and effects his purpose. His return, surrounded by acrowd of ocean nymphs, is beautifully represented. We refer our readers to the volume for the passage.
Here the scene of this poem changes, and we find our Fay is still destined to another duty—one far more difficult than any he has yet accomplished. The remainder of his sentence now demands attention.
“Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,Thou must re-illume its spark.Mount thy steed and spur him highTo the heaven’s blue canopy;And when thou seest a shooting star,Follow it fast, and follow it far—The last faint spark of its burning trainShall light the elfin lamp again.Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;Hence! to the water-side, away!”
“Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,Thou must re-illume its spark.Mount thy steed and spur him highTo the heaven’s blue canopy;And when thou seest a shooting star,Follow it fast, and follow it far—The last faint spark of its burning trainShall light the elfin lamp again.Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;Hence! to the water-side, away!”
“Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,Thou must re-illume its spark.Mount thy steed and spur him highTo the heaven’s blue canopy;And when thou seest a shooting star,Follow it fast, and follow it far—The last faint spark of its burning trainShall light the elfin lamp again.Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;Hence! to the water-side, away!”
“Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
Thou must re-illume its spark.
Mount thy steed and spur him high
To the heaven’s blue canopy;
And when thou seest a shooting star,
Follow it fast, and follow it far—
The last faint spark of its burning train
Shall light the elfin lamp again.
Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;
Hence! to the water-side, away!”
To the execution of this last injunction all his powers are now directed, and we find him thus equipped for this most daring enterprise.
“He put his acorn helmet on;It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down:The corslet plate that guarded his breastWas once the wild bee’s golden vest;His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,Was formed of the wings of butterflies;His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,Studs of gold on a ground of green;And the quivering lance which he brandished bright,Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed;He bared his blade of the bent grass blue;He drove his spurs of the cockle seed,And away like a glance of thought he flew,To skim the heavens and follow farThe fiery trail of the rocket-star.”
“He put his acorn helmet on;It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down:The corslet plate that guarded his breastWas once the wild bee’s golden vest;His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,Was formed of the wings of butterflies;His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,Studs of gold on a ground of green;And the quivering lance which he brandished bright,Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed;He bared his blade of the bent grass blue;He drove his spurs of the cockle seed,And away like a glance of thought he flew,To skim the heavens and follow farThe fiery trail of the rocket-star.”
“He put his acorn helmet on;It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down:The corslet plate that guarded his breastWas once the wild bee’s golden vest;His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,Was formed of the wings of butterflies;His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,Studs of gold on a ground of green;And the quivering lance which he brandished bright,Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed;He bared his blade of the bent grass blue;He drove his spurs of the cockle seed,And away like a glance of thought he flew,To skim the heavens and follow farThe fiery trail of the rocket-star.”
“He put his acorn helmet on;
It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down:
The corslet plate that guarded his breast
Was once the wild bee’s golden vest;
His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,
Was formed of the wings of butterflies;
His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,
Studs of gold on a ground of green;
And the quivering lance which he brandished bright,
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed;
He bared his blade of the bent grass blue;
He drove his spurs of the cockle seed,
And away like a glance of thought he flew,
To skim the heavens and follow far
The fiery trail of the rocket-star.”
From the passage above quoted to the close of the poem, is extended a long series of most exquisite description. Each instant of our flight, unfolds to our enraptured vision scenes ever changing, and increasing in their splendor. Already have we hurried by the misty region of the cloud.
“The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,The sphered moon is past,The earth but seems a tiny blotOn a sheet of azure cast.”
“The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,The sphered moon is past,The earth but seems a tiny blotOn a sheet of azure cast.”
“The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,The sphered moon is past,The earth but seems a tiny blotOn a sheet of azure cast.”
“The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,
The sphered moon is past,
The earth but seems a tiny blot
On a sheet of azure cast.”
We rest not till we stand beside
—“the flood which rolls its milky hue,A river of light on the welkin blue,”
—“the flood which rolls its milky hue,A river of light on the welkin blue,”
—“the flood which rolls its milky hue,A river of light on the welkin blue,”
—“the flood which rolls its milky hue,
A river of light on the welkin blue,”
surrounded by the brightness of celestial realms.
As specimens of fanciful illustration, we give a description of the palace chosen for the empress sylph of heaven, which our author introduces by way of episode before proceeding to fulfill his purpose.
“Its spiral columns gleaming brightWere streamers of the northern light;Its curtain’s light and lovely flushWas of the morning’s rosy blush,And the ceiling fair that rose aboonThe while and feathery fleece of noon.”
“Its spiral columns gleaming brightWere streamers of the northern light;Its curtain’s light and lovely flushWas of the morning’s rosy blush,And the ceiling fair that rose aboonThe while and feathery fleece of noon.”
“Its spiral columns gleaming brightWere streamers of the northern light;Its curtain’s light and lovely flushWas of the morning’s rosy blush,And the ceiling fair that rose aboonThe while and feathery fleece of noon.”
“Its spiral columns gleaming bright
Were streamers of the northern light;
Its curtain’s light and lovely flush
Was of the morning’s rosy blush,
And the ceiling fair that rose aboon
The while and feathery fleece of noon.”
Again, we have a notice of the queen’s apparel.
“Her mantle was the purple rolledAt twilight in the west afar;’Twas tied with threads of dawning gold,And buttoned with a sparkling star.”
“Her mantle was the purple rolledAt twilight in the west afar;’Twas tied with threads of dawning gold,And buttoned with a sparkling star.”
“Her mantle was the purple rolledAt twilight in the west afar;’Twas tied with threads of dawning gold,And buttoned with a sparkling star.”
“Her mantle was the purple rolled
At twilight in the west afar;
’Twas tied with threads of dawning gold,
And buttoned with a sparkling star.”
In looking back upon the numerous quotations we have made, we fear that we have trespassed, it may be too long, upon the patience of our readers. To analyze the poem fully—and such was our first intention—would conduct farther than our limits will allow. We shall therefore hasten to a close, and from several passages which still remain unnoticed, select one most distinguished for the richness of its coloring. It contains the greater part of the address of the queen sylph to our wandering Fay, when endeavoring to detain him in her presence, she draws a glowing picture of prospective bliss.
“Within the fleecy drift we’ll lie,We’ll hang upon the rainbow’s rim;And all the jewels of the skyAround thy brow shall brightly beam!And thou shaft bathe thee in the streamThat rolls its whitening foam aboon,And ride upon the lightning’s gleam,And dance upon the orbed moon!We’ll sit within the Pleiad ring,We’ll rest on Orion’s starry belt,And I will bid my sylphs to singThe song that makes the dew-mist melt;Their harps are of the umber shade,That hides the blush of waking day,And every gleamy string is madeOf silvery moonshine’s lengthened ray;And thou shalt pillow on my breast,While heavenly breathings float around,And, with sylphs of ether blest,Forget the joys of fairy ground.”
“Within the fleecy drift we’ll lie,We’ll hang upon the rainbow’s rim;And all the jewels of the skyAround thy brow shall brightly beam!And thou shaft bathe thee in the streamThat rolls its whitening foam aboon,And ride upon the lightning’s gleam,And dance upon the orbed moon!We’ll sit within the Pleiad ring,We’ll rest on Orion’s starry belt,And I will bid my sylphs to singThe song that makes the dew-mist melt;Their harps are of the umber shade,That hides the blush of waking day,And every gleamy string is madeOf silvery moonshine’s lengthened ray;And thou shalt pillow on my breast,While heavenly breathings float around,And, with sylphs of ether blest,Forget the joys of fairy ground.”
“Within the fleecy drift we’ll lie,We’ll hang upon the rainbow’s rim;And all the jewels of the skyAround thy brow shall brightly beam!And thou shaft bathe thee in the streamThat rolls its whitening foam aboon,And ride upon the lightning’s gleam,And dance upon the orbed moon!We’ll sit within the Pleiad ring,We’ll rest on Orion’s starry belt,And I will bid my sylphs to singThe song that makes the dew-mist melt;Their harps are of the umber shade,That hides the blush of waking day,And every gleamy string is madeOf silvery moonshine’s lengthened ray;And thou shalt pillow on my breast,While heavenly breathings float around,And, with sylphs of ether blest,Forget the joys of fairy ground.”
“Within the fleecy drift we’ll lie,
We’ll hang upon the rainbow’s rim;
And all the jewels of the sky
Around thy brow shall brightly beam!
And thou shaft bathe thee in the stream
That rolls its whitening foam aboon,
And ride upon the lightning’s gleam,
And dance upon the orbed moon!
We’ll sit within the Pleiad ring,
We’ll rest on Orion’s starry belt,
And I will bid my sylphs to sing
The song that makes the dew-mist melt;
Their harps are of the umber shade,
That hides the blush of waking day,
And every gleamy string is made
Of silvery moonshine’s lengthened ray;
And thou shalt pillow on my breast,
While heavenly breathings float around,
And, with sylphs of ether blest,
Forget the joys of fairy ground.”
The emotions which this burst of burning passion excited in the doubting Fay, are well described. The remembrance of his earthlylove, joined to the recollection of a sentence unperformed, enables him at last to utter a reply declining even such enjoyment. The impassioned queen, too generous to enforce her wishes, surrounds him with a spell that guards from every evil, and then bids him a reluctant and heart-felt adieu. Rapid is his progress to the termination of his labors. The conflict is soon over, and the prize is won. Already is he on the confines of his native land, and we listen to the music that proclaims his welcome. Gladly would we follow him still farther.
“But hark! from tower on tree-top high,The sentry elf his call has made,A streak is in the eastern sky,Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!The hill-tops gleam in morning’s spring,The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing,The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,The cock has crowed and the Fays are gone.”
“But hark! from tower on tree-top high,The sentry elf his call has made,A streak is in the eastern sky,Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!The hill-tops gleam in morning’s spring,The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing,The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,The cock has crowed and the Fays are gone.”
“But hark! from tower on tree-top high,The sentry elf his call has made,A streak is in the eastern sky,Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!The hill-tops gleam in morning’s spring,The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing,The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,The cock has crowed and the Fays are gone.”
“But hark! from tower on tree-top high,
The sentry elf his call has made,
A streak is in the eastern sky,
Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!
The hill-tops gleam in morning’s spring,
The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing,
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,
The cock has crowed and the Fays are gone.”