arrived at the hopeful point of a distinct per-| the world of power that is secured to ception of the means of amelioration. On the man by the control and defiance and deother hand, the characteristic trait of our age, feat of desire, or the higher uses and rapid material growth, tends to set up a coarse secrets of cravings that are never satisand limited ideal of life, which only makes the

fied. He alone loved to dwell upon the absence of inftier aims the more keenly felt by the more discerning order of mind.

How can men who have had visions of universal equality Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight; and fraternity find consolation in the spectacle And miserable love that is not pain of a plethora of material prosperity confined to To hear of, for the glory that redounds a mere handful in the crowd, and serving only Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. to throw out into bolder relief the prevailing emptiness?

Rare, and, as a rule, hard and passion

less are those poets who can dwell on the We have no doubt at all that the gorgeous from the belief that these sufferings are

sufferings of mankind without shrinking political dream and the profound political amongst the highest and most necessary disappointment or disillusionment of the French Revolution, had, and still has, an part of man's destiny, who can dwell with enormous influence in confounding the any true poetical rapture on the thought

that aspirations of our Western poets, at least of all those — and they are likely to be Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills among the most numerous of the poets The generations are prepared; the pangs, for generations to come, who find the The internal pangs, are ready, — the dread

strife thought of suffering multitudes, of misery

Of on a large scale, intolerable; and who,

poor Humanity's afflicted will. when once they have realized that this is But of those who can dwell on this, not the inevitable result of the existing law only without shrinking, but with a certain of society, feel as if their imagination had exaltation, Wordsworth was the chief, grasped the conception of something like For the most part, the modern poet no an evil law of nature, or, still more terrible, sooner realizes this necessity of human an evil God. Poets naturally dwell with suffering on a large scale than he sinks more passion than any other class of men into pessimism. The mere conception of on the disappointed desires of human life, the physical evils of the various climates and dwell on the disappointed desires all of the world fills Leopardi, for instance, the more, when they have satisfied them with such horror that he finds in it one of selves that theirs are not selfish desires, the main grounds of his pessimism, as his but are, like the utopian visions of Shel- dialogue between an Icelander and Nature ley, passionate aspirations for the renova- sufficiently shows. Yet even the comtion of that suffering humanity, which, in monest and most superficial philosophy its present condition, is, when you get to bas admitted that the necessity for strife the dregs of it, as hideous as it is miserable. with natural evils has been the root of We do not doubt at all that modern pessi- progress to the savage and the barbarian, mism does really owe a great deal of its and is, in a more refined form, a principal ardor to the poets, especially to voluptu. stimulus to progress still. But this the ous poets, not so much because they are southern poet, the poet to whom the evils voluptuous, as because the same charac. of physical suffering seem intolerable, canteristic which makes them dwell so con- not realize; and it is because so many of stantly on the gratified or suffering senses our own modern poets'seem to have mouldof men, blinds them to that aspect of life ed themselves in the same school, to have in which it is seen that disappointment taken upon themselves to bewail every becomes the condition of the truest vision, mass of human suffering as a final evil and that suffering is transmuted into the which they see no way to mitigate, — just rarest power. For this is the point of as if there could be nothing indirectly' enview which modern poets, — and espe- nobling and tempering in the suffering cially poets whose imagination dwells itself, – that there is such a tendency to habitually on pleasure as it so often does, pessimism in the poetry of our own day. - seldom seize. It was because Words. We have quoted Mr. Symonds's picture worth seized it, that the great social catas- of humanity, like the protomartyr Prome. trophe which drove so many poets into theus,“ dreeing life's doom on Caucasus," pessimism, raised him to the highest because we suppose that, as ibis, sonnet point of his visionary power. No poet stands last in his series of pictures of the of mere desire ever felt, as Wordsworth soul of man, he regards that as the out. felt, the true significance of desire, come of the whole. But surely a poet




who could conceive of this as the noblest A TRANSLATION FROM HEINE. outcome of human idealism, should have reflected that while the fabled Prometheus (Heine's last poem, written a week or two before had no power of suicide, man has such a

his death.) power, and no need at all to 66

dree frightful doom, unless there be something

I DREAMT a dream upon a summer night, noble, something grand, some ultimate

Where pale, dissolving in the moon's cold

glance, and final conquest over evil, to be gained Lay works of ancient beauty and of might, by dreeing this doom, — and that if this Old ruins from the time of Renaissance. be so, there clearly must be a God over all the changes and chances of this world, And here and there in that encumbered place both to prophecy to the soul, and to elicit,

Rose some bold Doric column all alone, the final issue. Mr. Symonds himself has And looked the frowning firmament in face,

As if it could defy the thunderstone. put this very finely in another sonnet, in. tended, however, to image only that phase Prone on the earth lay shattered all about of credulous hope which he ultimately Doors, gables, roofs, with sculptures from an merges in his very dismal conclusion. We will quote Mr. Symonds himself, as When man and beast were mingled in a rout the best antidote to Mr. Symonds : –

Of centaurs, sphinxes, satyrs, and chimæra. Pathos of piety! Poor human brain,

And in an open tomb of marble, fair, In thine own image moulding God, to be

Whole 'mid the ruin and the carven crea. Victim and victor of sin's curse like thee,

tures, Like thee submissive to the laws of pain ! Wrapped in his shroud, but to the night-winds Rising not up in anger to arraign

bare, Heaven's justice, thou, with proud humility, A dead man lay, with pale, long-suffering Didst own thy guileless guilt the cause why He features. Who made Man's soul thus faulty, wrought in vain !

Strong caryatides, with throats upreared, Sad, tender thought, that God himself should

Held him aloft as if with might and main; bow

And on the coffer's either side appeared Under the doom he graved on Adam's brow!

In low relief, a wild and motley train. Logic illogical, that He who framed Man thrail of sin, death's slave, for suffering Here, glorious from Olympus, came the band

Of heathen gods, all flushed with lawless born, Should on his own head wear that crown of But Adam and his Eve are close at hand

passion; thorn,

In modest aprons of the fig-leaf fashion. And dying prove man's soul from death reclaimed.

Paris and Helen, Hector too, are here, Why“ pathos of piety”? If the suffer- Troy's fall and fire what next we may dising of man is to answer its purpose, as

cern is; Mr. Symonds appears to expect,

- or he Moses and Aaron also hover near, would hardly urge man to take up volun.

With Esther, Judith, Haman, Holofernes. tarily the part which Prometheus played Here likewise is the god of Love to see, involuntarily, — he must believe that there Phoebus Apollo, Vulcan, lady Venus, is a power, overruling that will of man Pluto and Proserpine, and Mercury, which always strives to fly from anguish, God Bacchus, and Priapus, and Silenus. a power inspiring him “to dree his doom on Caucasus." It it were not so, what is Here Balaam and his ass wait further on,

The likeness of the ass is really speaking; to prevent him from taking his fate into And Abraham about to slay his son; his own hands, and despatching himself,

And Lot for whom his daughters twain are as Carlyle so often suggested that it would

seeking be an excellent thing for man to do? Yet if there be this overruling power which Here before Herod sways the nimble child

Of her to whom the Baptist's head was keeps us suffering while we need not suf

given ; fer, which makes us feel how much better Here Hell broke loose, and Satan here beit is to “dree our doom” than to fly from

guiled ; it, what can that power be except one Here Peter showed and shook the keys of which loves a crown of thorns, which Heaven. knows how much the crown of thorns and further change there was to ponder on, adds to the power of him who wears it, When wanton Jove, bent at all costs to win and that the true conquest of pain is ob

his tained by wholly submitting to its grasp, Lascivious will, chased Leda as a swan, not in shrinking fearfully from that grasp? And Danae in a shower of golden guineas.

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Here Dian heads herself the eager press We did not speak; but ah! I could perceive Of kirtled nymphs, and deep-mouthed hounds The inmost secret of your spirit cleariy : intoning;

The spoken word is shameless, may deceive, And here sits Hercules in woman's dress. Love's pure unopened fower" is silence

The distaff in his hand, the spindle droning. merely. Here Sanäi his cloudy front uprears,

Voiceless communing ! who could ever deem, There at its foot is Israel with his ox;

In tender converse which no ear might hear, And in the Temple here the Lord appears, That time could as in my happy dream A child disputing with the orthodox.

That summer night so full of joy and fear? The contrasts side by side are sharply set : The Greek light-heartedness, the stern God. What we then said, oh ask it of me never! fearing

Ask of the glow-worm what it says in shining; Spirit of Judah, and the woven net

Ask what the wavelet whispers to the river ; Of ivy.tendrils over all careering.

Question the west wind of its soft repining. Then, wonderful! The while, as I have said, Ask the carbūncle of its fiery gleam;

These carven fancies in my dream went by, Ask what coy sweets the violet is betraying; Sudden it seemed to come into my head, But ask not what beneath the moon's sad beam

The dead man in the marble tomb was I. The martyr-flower and her dead are saying ! And bending down towards my resting-place

I have no thought how long I may have known There stood a flower, - a flower of such

The calm refreshment of that marble chest strange fashion, A flower that had so wild a charm and grace,

And happy dream. But oh, the dream was

flown, That people call it flower of the Passion.

And flown the all unwonted boon of rest! Purple and sulphur-pale, from out the sod Of Calvary, they say this blossom burst

Oh, Death and Silence ! bring my soul release, When men had crucified the Son of God,

Thou, only thou, canst give voluptuous bliss; And shed His blood to heal the world ac. The storm of passion, joy that knows no peace, curst.

When life would give its best, it offers this. Blood-witness it is named, and you will find But woe is me! for sudden from without

That every several instrument of malice, Loud cries broke in upon my still delight; All tools of martyrdom of various kind, I heard a scolding, stamping, noisy rout, It carries counterfeited in its chalice.

And, ah! my flower was trembling in affright. Each requisite of pain the flower adorns ; From out its torture-chamber nothing fails :

Yes, just outside my tomb there rose and fell, The spittle and the cords, the crown of thorns, Loud voices, some among them known too

Disputing, swearing, yelping, idly jangling, The cross, the cup, the hammer, and the

well, nails.

The bas-reliefs upon my tomb were wranAnd at my grave there stood a flower like this, gling.

And bent above my corpse so still and cold,
With woman's sorrow, and with woman's kiss, Must lies still haunt the very stones, and can
Prest hands, brow, cheek, and wept on un-

These marble shadows fight for outworn consoled.


The startled shriek of the wild wood-god Pan, Then, sorcery of dreams! this flower of mine

Contending with anathemas of Moses ! This blossom from the heart of passion blown,

Ay, this same battle rages evermore, Had changed into a woman's likeness, thine, War 'twixt the True and Beautiful has been Yes thine, my best and dearest, thine, thine And will be, and mankind as heretofore

Ranged in two camps — Barbarian and Hel. Thou wert that flower; yes thou, beloved

lene. child, That from thy woman's kisses I was learn. They shouted, raved, swore, — all the rest of it,

There was no end of tedious controversy ; ing, No flower had ever lips so soft, so mild,

But Balaam's ass had still the best of it, And never, never flower had tears so burn

And brayed down gods and saints, and knew ing!

no mercy: Closed were mine eyes, and yet with inward And at this vile eh-aw, which never ceased, gaze

This odious discord, truculent, defying, My soul beheld thee standing still before me, In desperation at the stupid beast Ghost-like, illumined with the moon's pale I too cried out, and — woke myself with cry. ray's,

ing. A beatific vision bending o'er me.


EMILY Preiffer.

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Fifth Series, Volume XXXIX,


No. 1987.- July 22, 1882.


From Beginning,

Vol. CLIV.

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Modern Review, II. BARNEY'S NEIGHBOR. Conclusion,

Sunday Magazine, III. NAMES OF FLOWERS,

Cornhill Magazine,

Temple Bar,
V. HENRI HEINE: A FAMILY PORTRAIT, . Contemporary Review, .

Gentleman's Magazine,



Pall Mall Gazette,


131 140 145 152 159 167 179 185 ISS 191

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Single Numbers of The LIVING AGE, 18 cents


Soft and sound! No restless dreams

Trouble his repose;

Yet, while the form exhausted sleeps,

The spirit somewhere vigil keeps;
WIDE lucid eyes in cavernous orbits set;

For he who lives, and loves, and makes,
Afame like living opals or the sea ;

His impress on each thing he takes,
Vibrant with floods of electricity;

To shape, or change, or mould at will,
The soul projected in each fiery jet :

He does not lie there dumb and still,
This thy fierce fascination haunts me yet ;

As that his servant does.
And I have dreamed all Venice into thee ;

Her domes of pearl, her heaven's immensity, Soft and sound it sleeps, while he
And superhuman saints of Tintoret.

Breaks his prison bars,
Hoarse-voiced art thou as Tritons of her Perchance to soar on fearless wings,

And in unconscious wanderings,
Swift as man-snaring murderous ocean shark; To hold communion full and free
White as foam-wreaths blown over Lido's line; With the beloved we may not see,
Stealthy as bats that skim those waves at Till all our earthly race is run,

Beyond the moon, beyond the sun,
Storm-browed with curls of thunder ; leonine

Beyond the great white stars.
As the winged guardian war-beast of St.

Soft and sound, the while I creep

Noiseless ever, near;
Rebellious Angel ! Were it mine, the skill

My soul is captive as I sit
Of those first Titans, Titian, Veronese,

In the warm frame that waits with it,
Or him the master mightier-winged than

And watch o'er him I love the best,

Half jealous of the tranquil rest
Thy Tintoret who reigns o'er Venice still ;

That sets his spirit free to rove

Somewhere — where I with all my love,
I would compel thee, by art's crucible
Severing the soul's ore from gross earthly

May scarcely follow, dear.
To re-assume amid heaven's hierarchies Soft and sound! My fingers glide
Thy station, purged, pure, and of perfect will. Into your nerveless hold;
A warrior angel, thou with those should'st Beside your head my own I lay,

I try to call your soul away,
Who guard our Lady round her throne of Whate'er the holy haunts it seeks,

My will, its passionate summons speaks ;
And in thy puissant grasp a gleaming brand ; My love, and all its royal might,

And all about thy shoulders armor bright: I clothe my call in strength to-night.
But I would have thine eyes even as they are, Darling, will you obey?
Gazing from steel-clad brows, each orb a star.

All The Year Round,




Soft and sound he sleeps, my dear,
Dark fringed lids o'er tired eyes;
Strong hands, thrown in utter rest,
Quiet on the quiet breast;
Firm lips half fallen in smile apart,
And the pulsing of the heart
Scarcely fans my cheek who watch
The Hutter of his breath to catch,
So very still he lies.

In sunlight and in storm the giant sea
Breathes with the equal breath of yearlong,

From breath to breath it is a day, so deep,
So utter deep his rest. The winds in glee
May pass like faery dreams across his face,

Or winds in wrath may stir the spumy hair

That hoary was ere toiling peoples were
Or flowers or grass or any pleasant place,
But still he sleeps, with breath on equal breath,
And still he sleeps till now we scarcely

Yet once he rose and swept the green earth

clear And laughed alone the surging heavens be.

neath. Dream'st thou again to tumble thrones and

creeds Deep down together 'mid the tangled weeds ?


Soft and sound he sleeps, outworn,
By the fret and strife
Of the eager hours that fill
Each long day of good or ill;
Of gallant battle for the truth;
Of ħery thoughts of gifted youth;
Of fighting often hand to hand,
With fate he cannot understand,
For full and hard his life.

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