Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348. Various
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that’s lovely speaks of thee!
When the glorious sun appeareth,
’Tis thy harbinger to me:
Only thus he cheereth.
In the garden where thou go’st,
There art thou the rose of roses,
First of lilies, fragrant most
Of the fragrant posies.
When thou movest in the dance,
All the stars with thee are moving,
And around thee gleam and glance,
Never tired of loving.
Night!—and would the night were here!
Yet the moon would lose her duty,
Though her sheen be soft and clear,
Softer is thy beauty!
Fair, and kind, and gentle one!
Do not moon, and stars, and flowers
Pay that homage to their sun
That we pay to ours?
Sun of mine, that art so dear—
Sun, that art above all sorrow!
Shine, I pray thee, on me here
Till the eternal morrow.
Another little poem makes us think of “poor Ophelia.” We suspect that Goethe had the music of her broken ballad floating in his mind, when he composed the following verses:—
The Wild Rose
A boy espied, in morning light,
A little rosebud blowing.
’Twas so delicate and bright,
That he came to feast his sight,
And wonder at its growing.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!
I will gather thee—he cried—
Rosebud brightly blowing!
Then I’ll sting thee, it replied,
And you’ll quickly start aside
With the prickle glowing.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!
But he pluck’d it from the plain,
The rosebud brightly blowing!
It turn’d and stung him, but in vain—
He regarded not the pain,
Homewards with it going.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!
We are sure that the votaries of Wordsworth will thank us for the next translation, which embodies a most noble idea. See how the eye of the poet is scanning the silent march of the heavens, and mark with what solemn music he invests the stately thought!
A Night Thought
I do not envy you, ye joyless stars,
Though fair ye be, and glorious to the sight—
The seaman’s hope amidst the ’whelming storm,
When help from God or man there cometh none.
No! for ye love not, nor have ever loved!
Through the broad fields of heaven, the eternal hours
Lead on your circling spheres unceasingly.
How vast a journey have ye travell’d o’er,
Since I, upon the bosom of my love,
Forgot all memory of night or you!
Let us follow up these glorious lines with a conception worthy of Æschylus—indeed an abstract of his master-subject. It were out of place here to dilate upon the mythical grandeur of Prometheus, and the heroic endurance of his character, as depicted by the ancient poet. To our mind and ear, the modern is scarcely inferior.
Prometheus
Curtain thy heavens, thou Jove, with clouds and mist,
And, like a boy that moweth thistles down,
Unloose thy spleen on oaks and mountain-tops;
Yet canst thou not deprive me of my earth,
Nor of my hut, the which thou didst not build,
Nor of my hearth, whose little cheerful flame
Thou enviest me!
I know not aught within the universe
More slight, more pitiful than you, ye Gods!
Who nurse your majesty with scant supplies
Of offerings wrung from fear, and mutter’d prayers,
And needs must starve, were’t not that babes and beggars
Are hope-besotted fools!
When I was yet a child, and knew not whence
My being came, nor where to turn its powers,
Up to the sun I bent my wilder’d eye,
As though above, within its glorious orb,
There dwelt an ear to listen to my plaint,
A heart, like mine, to pity the oppress’d.
Who gave me succour
Against the Titans in their tyrannous might?
Who rescued me from death—from slavery?
Thou!—thou, my soul, burning with hallow’d fire,
Thou hast thyself alone achieved it all!
Yet didst thou, in thy young simplicity,
Glow with misguided thankfulness to him
That slumbers on in idlesse there above!
I reverence thee?
Wherefore? Hast thou ever
Lighten’d the sorrows of the heavy-laden?
Thou ever stretch’d thy hand to still the tears
Of the perplex’d in spirit?
Was it not
Almighty Time, and ever-during Fate—
My lords and thine—that shaped and fashion’d me
Into the man I am?
Belike it was thy dream,
That I should hate life—fly to wastes and wilds,
For that the buds of visionary thought
Did not all ripen into goodly flowers?
Here do I sit, and mould
Men after mine own image—
A race that may be like unto myself,
To suffer, weep; to enjoy, and to rejoice;
And, like myself, unheeding all of thee!
We shall close this Number with a ballad of a different cast, but, lest the transition should be too violent, we shall interpolate the space with a very beautiful lyric. We claim no merit for this translation, for, to say the truth, we could not have done it half so well. Perhaps the fair hand that penned it, will turn over the pages of Maga in distant Wales, and a happy blush over-spread her cheek when she sees, enshrined in these columns, the effort of her maiden Muse.
New Love, New Life
Heart—my heart!