arrived at the hopeful point of a distinct perception of the means of amelioration. On the other hand, the characteristic trait of our age, rapid material growth, tends to set up a coarse and limited ideal of life, which only makes the absence of loftier aims the more keenly felt by the more discerning order of mind. How can men who have had visions of universal equality and fraternity find consolation in the spectacle of a plethora of material prosperity confined to a mere handful in the crowd, and serving only to throw out into bolder relief the prevailing emptiness? the world of power that is secured to man by the control and defiance and defeat of desire, or the higher uses and secrets of cravings that are never satisfied. He alone loved to dwell upon the sorrow Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight; Rare, and, as a rule, hard and passionless are those poets who can dwell on the from the belief that these sufferings are sufferings of mankind without shrinking amongst the highest and most necessary part of man's destiny, who can dwell with any true poetical rapture on the thought that Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills strife We have no doubt at all that the gorgeous political dream and the profound political disappointment or disillusionment of the French Revolution, had, and still has, an enormous influence in confounding the aspirations of our Western poets, at least of all those and they are likely to be among the most numerous of the poets for generations to come, who find the thought of suffering multitudes, of misery on a large scale, intolerable; and who, 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 has 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 ardor to the poets, especially to voluptu ous poets, not so much because they are voluptuous, as because the same characteristic which makes them dwell so constantly on the gratified or suffering senses of men, blinds them to that aspect of life in which it is seen that disappointment becomes the condition of the truest vision, and that suffering is transmuted into the rarest power. For this is the point of view which modern poets, and especially poets whose imagination dwells habitually on pleasure as it so often does, - seldom seize. It was because Wordsworth seized it, that the great social catastrophe which drove so many poets into pessimism, raised him to the highest point of his visionary power. No poet of mere desire ever felt, as Wordsworth felt, the true significance of desire, just and is, in a more refined form, a principal A TRANSLATION FROM HEINE. his death.) a I DREAMT a dream upon a summer night, Lay works of ancient beauty and of might, who could conceive of this as the noblest In thine own image moulding God, to be Sad, tender thought, that God himself should Under the doom he graved on Adam's brow! Man thrall of sin, death's slave, for suffering Should on his own head wear that crown of And dying prove man's soul from death re- Why" pathos of piety"? If the suffer- And here and there in that encumbered place And looked the frowning firmament in face, Prone on the earth lay shattered all about æra When man and beast were mingled in a rout Whole 'mid the ruin and the carven crea tures, Wrapped in his shroud, but to the night-winds bare, A dead man lay, with pale, long-suffering features. Strong caryatides, with throats upreared, Held him aloft as if with might and main; Here, glorious from Olympus, came the band In modest aprons of the fig-leaf fashion. Moses and Aaron also hover near, With Esther, Judith, Haman, Holofernes. Here likewise is the god of Love to see, Phoebus Apollo, Vulcan, lady Venus, Pluto and Proserpine, and Mercury, God Bacchus, and Priapus, and Silenus. Here Balaam and his ass wait further on, The likeness of the ass is really speaking; And Abraham about to slay his son; And Lot for whom his daughters twain are seeking. Here before Herod sways the nimble child given; Of her to whom the Baptist's head was Here Hell broke loose, and Satan here beguiled; Here Peter showed and shook the keys of And further change there was to ponder on, Lascivious will, chased Leda as a swan, Here Dian heads herself the eager press Of kirtled nymphs, and deep-mouthed hounds And here sits Hercules in woman's dress. Here Sanäi his cloudy front uprears, There at its foot is Israel with his ox; And in the Temple here the Lord appears, A child disputing with the orthodox. The contrasts side by side are sharply set: The Greek light-heartedness, the stern Godfearing Spirit of Judah, and the woven net Of ivy-tendrils over all careering. Then, wonderful! The while, as I have said, These carven fancies in my dream went by, Sudden it seemed to come into my head, The dead man in the marble tomb was I. And bending down towards my resting-place There stood a flower, -a flower of such strange fashion, A flower that had so wild a charm and grace, Blood-witness it is named, and you will find Each requisite of pain the flower adorns ; From out its torture-chamber nothing fails : The spittle and the cords, the crown of thorns, The cross, the cup, the hammer, and the nails. And at my grave there stood a flower like this, And bent above my corpse so still and cold, With woman's sorrow, and with woman's kiss, Prest hands, brow, cheek, and wept on unconsoled. Then, sorcery of dreams! this flower of mineThis blossom from the heart of passion blown, Had changed into a woman's likeness, thine, Yes thine, my best and dearest, thine, thine We did not speak; but ah! I could perceive The inmost secret of your spirit clearly: The spoken word is shameless, may deceive, Love's pure unopened flower is silence merely. Voiceless communing who could ever deem, In tender converse which no ear might hear, That time could fly as in my happy dream That summer night so full of joy and fear? What we then said, oh ask it of me never! Ask of the glow-worm what it says in shining; Ask what the wavelet whispers to the river; Question the west wind of its soft repining. Ask the carbuncle of its fiery gleam; Ask what coy sweets the violet is betraying; But ask not what beneath the moon's sad beam The martyr-flower and her dead are saying! For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents. 130 192 ANGELO RIBELLO. A VENETIAN STUDY. I. WIDE lucid eyes in cavernous orbits set; Swift as man-snaring murderous ocean shark; White as foam-wreaths blown over Lido's line; Stealthy as bats that skim those waves at dark; Storm-browed with curls of thunder; leonine As the winged guardian war-beast of St. Mark. II. Rebellious Angel! Were it mine, the skill Thy Tintoret who reigns o'er Venice still; Severing the soul's ore from gross earthly lees, To re-assume amid heaven's hierarchies Thy station, purged, pure, and of perfect will. A warrior angel, thou with those should'st stand Who guard our Lady round her throne of light; And in thy puissant grasp a gleaming brand; Soft and sound! No restless dreams Yet, while the form exhausted sleeps, Soft and sound it sleeps, while he Perchance to soar on fearless wings, Soft and sound, the while I creep My soul is captive as I sit In the warm frame that waits with it, Soft and sound! My fingers glide Beside your head my own I lay, All The Year Round. THE SEA. DUAL LIFE. SOFT and sound he sleeps, my dear, Soft and sound he sleeps, outworn, |