Allan Cunningham—there is poetry in the name, written or sung—and high-wrought poetry too, in nearly every production to which that name is attached—and among these "The Anniversary for 1829." All the departments of this work too, (as in the "Keepsake") are unique. Mr. Sharpe, the proprietor, is a man of refined taste, his Editor and his contributors are men of first-rate genius, the Painters and Engravers are of the first rank, and the volume is printed at Mr. Whittingham's Chiswick-press. Excellence must always be the result of such a combination of talent, and so it proves in the Anniversary. As might have been expected from the talent of its editor, the volume is superior in its poetical attractions—both in number and quality.

By way of variety, we begin with the poetry. First is a stirring little ballad, the Warrior, by the editor; then, a humorous epistle from Robert Southey, Esq. to Allan Cunningham, in which the laureat deals forth his ire on the "misresemblances and villanous visages" which have been published as his portrait.1 Next is a gem of another water, Edderline's Dream, by Professor Wilson, the supposed editor of "Blackwood's Magazine." This is throughout a very beautiful composition, but we must content ourselves with the following extract:—

EDDERLINE'S SLEEP

"Castle-Oban is lost in the darkness of night, For the moon is swept from the starless heaven, And the latest line of lowering light That lingered on the stormy even, A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave, Hath sunk into the weltering grave. Castle-Oban is dark without and within, And downwards to the fearful din, Where Ocean with his thunder shocks Stuns the green foundation rocks, Through the green abyss that mocks his eye, Oft hath the eerie watchman sent A shuddering look, a shivering sigh, From the edge of the howling battlement! "Therein is a lonesome room, Undisturbed as some old tomb That, built within a forest glen, Far from feet of living men, And sheltered by its black pine-trees From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas, Flings back its arched gateway tall, At times to some great funeral! Noiseless as a central cell In the bosom of a mountain Where the fairy people dwell, By the cold and sunless fountain! Breathless as a holy shrine, When the voice of psalms is shed! And there upon her stately bed, While her raven locks recline O'er an arm more pure than snow, Motionless beneath her head,— And through her large fair eyelids shine Shadowy dreams that come and go, By too deep bliss disquieted,— There sleeps in love and beauty's glow, The high-born Lady Edderline. "Lo! the lamp's wan fitful light, Glide,—gliding round the golden rim! Restored to life, now glancing bright, Now just expiring, faint and dim! "Like a spirit loath to die, Contending with its destiny. All dark! a momentary veil Is o'er the sleeper! now a pale Uncertain beauty glimmers faint, And now the calm face of the saint With every feature re-appears, Celestial in unconscious tears! Another gleam! how sweet the while, Those pictured faces on the wall, Through the midnight silence smile! Shades of fair ones, in the aisle Vaulted the castle cliffs below, To nothing mouldered, one and all, Ages long ago! "From her pillow, as if driven By an unseen demon's hand Disturbing the repose of heaven, Hath fallen her head! The long black hair From the fillet's silken band In dishevelled masses riven, Is streaming downwards to the floor. Is the last convulsion o'er? And will that length of glorious tresses, So laden with the soul's distresses. By those fair hands in morning light, Above those eyelids opening bright, Be braided nevermore! No, the lady is not dead, Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed; Like a wretched corse upon the shore, That lies until the morning brings Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings; Or, haply, to all eyes unknown, Is borne away without a groan, On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries Of birds that pierce the sunny skies With seaward dash, or in calm bands Parading o'er the silvery sands, Or mid the lovely flush of shells, Pausing to burnish crest or wing. No fading footmark see that tells Of that poor unremembered thing! "O dreadful is the world of dreams, When all that world a chaos seems Of thoughts so fixed before! When heaven's own face is tinged with blood! And friends cross o'er our solitude, Now friends of our's no more! Or dearer to our hearts than ever. Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour, Their pale and palsied hands, To clasp us phantoms, as we go Along the void like drifting snow. To far-off nameless lands! Yet all the while we know not why, Nor where those dismal regions lie, Half hoping that a curse to so deep And wild can only be in sleep, And that some overpowering scream Will break the fetters of the dream, And let us back to waking life, Filled though it be with care and strife; Since there at least the wretch can know The meanings on the face of woe, Assured that no mock shower is shed Of tears upon the real dead, Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss, When bending o'er the death-like cheek Of one who scarcely seems alive, At every cold but breathing kiss. He hears a saving angel speak— 'Thy love will yet revive!'"

Then comes A Farewell to the year, one of Mr. Lockhart's elegant translations from the Spanish; a pretty portrait of rustic simplicity—the Little Gleaner, by the editor; and some playful lines by M.A. Shee, accompanying an engraving from his own picture of the Lost Ear-Rings. The Wedding Wake, by George Darley, Esq. is an exquisite picture of saddened beauty. The Ettrick Shepherd has the Carle of Invertine—a powerful composition, and the Cameronian Preacher, a prose tale, of equal effect. In addition to the pieces already mentioned, by the editor, is one of extraordinary excellence—the Magic Bridle: his Lines to a Boy plucking Blackberries, are a very pleasing picture of innocence:—

There stay in joy, Pluck, pluck, and eat thou happy boy; Sad fate abides thee. Thou mayst grow A man: for God may deem it so, I wish thee no such harm, sweet child: Go, whilst thou'rt innocent and mild: Go, ere earth's passions, fierce and proud, Rend thee as lightning rend the cloud: Go, go, life's day is in the dawn: Go, wait not, wish not to be man.

One of his pieces we quote entire:—

Страница 5 из 13

Назад 1…4 5 6…13 Далее

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 344 (Supplementary Issue)

AI-разбор доступен после входа

О книге

Читать онлайн

The Anniversary,

Edited by Allan Cunningham

EDDERLINE'S SLEEP

Вам также может понравиться

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 279, October 20, 1827

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 262, July 7, 1827

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 264, July 14, 1827

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 276, October 6, 1827

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 385, August 15, 1829

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 399, Supplementary Number

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 273, September 15, 1827

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 582, December 22, 1832

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 268, August 11, 1827

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 331, September 13, 1828

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 333, September 27, 1828

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13. Index to Volume 13