a wild dedication of yourselves To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores. This “wild dedication” is, it should be noted, looked upon by Camillo with disfavor. Mon Âme, imaginant, n’a point la patience De bien polir les vers et ranger la science. La rÈgle me dÉplaÎt, j’Écris confusÉment: Jamais un bon esprit ne fait rien qu’aisÉment. … Je veux faire des vers qui ne soient pas contraints … Chercher des lieux secrets oÙ rein ne me dÉplaise, MÉditer À loisir, rÊver tout À mon aise, Employer toute une heure À me mirer dans l’eau, OuÏr, comme en songeant, la course d’un ruisseau. Ecrire dans un bois, m’interrompre, me taire, Composer un quatrain sans songer À le faire. Change l’État douteux dans lequel tu nous ranges, Nature ÉlÈve-nous À la clartÉ des anges, Ou nous abaisse au sens des simples animaux. Sonnet (1657?). Quel esprit ne bat la campagne? Qui ne fait chÂteaux en Espagne? Picrochole, Pyrrhus, la laitiÈre, enfin tous, Autant les sages que les fous Chacun songe en veillant; il n’est rien de plus doux. Une flatteuse erreur emporte alors nos Âmes; Tout le bien du monde est À nous, Tous les honneurs, toutes les femmes. Quand je suis seul, je fais au plus brave un dÉfi, Je m’Écarte, je vais dÉtrÔner le sophi; On m’Élit roi, mon peuple m’aime; Les diadÈmes vont sur ma tÊte pleuvant: Quelque accident fait-il que je rentre en moi-mÊme, Je suis gros Jean comme devant. The world’s great age begins anew, The golden years return, etc. Hellas, vv. 1060 ff. This sentimental trait did not escape the authors of the Anti-Jacobin: Sweet child of sickly Fancy—Her of yore From her lov’d France Rousseau to exile bore; And while midst lakes and mountains wild he ran Full of himself and shunn’d the haunts of man, Taught her o’er each lone vale and Alpine steep To lisp the stories of his wrongs and weep; Taught her to cherish still in either eye Of tender tears a plentiful supply, And pour them in the brooks that babbled by— Taught her to mete by rule her feelings strong, False by degrees and delicately wrong, For the crush’d Beetle, first—the widow’d Dove, And all the warbled sorrows of the grove, Next for poor suff’ring Guilt—and last of all, For Parents, Friends, or King and Country’s fall. Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved;—not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. Michael Once more the Ass, with motion dull, Upon the pivot of his skull Turned round his long left ear. “The bard who soars to elegize an ass” and the “laureate of the long-eared kind” (English Bards and Scotch Reviewers) is, however, not Wordsworth but Coleridge. See his poem To a Young Ass, its mother being tethered near it. MondbeglÄnzte Zaubernacht, Die den Sinn gefangen hÄlt, Wundervolle MÄrchenwelt Steig’ auf in der alten Pracht. A special study might be made of the rÔle of the moon in Chateaubriand and Coleridge—even if one is not prepared like Carlyle to dismiss Coleridge’s philosophy as “bottled moonshine.” Ce n’Était pas Rolla qui gouvernait sa vie, C’Étaient ses passions; il les laissait aller Comme un pÂtre assoupi regarde l’eau couler. With nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth and their old age Is beautiful and free. Wordsworth: The Fountain. Je suis une force qui va! Agent aveugle et sourd de mystÈres funÈbres. Wo ist der, der sagen dÜrfe, So will ich’s, so sei’s gemacht, Unser Taten sind nur WÜrfe In des Zufalls blinde Nacht. Die Ahnfrau. A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a rage. … He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov’d by men. He who the ox to wrath has mov’d Shall never be by woman lov’d. … Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgment draweth nigh. Auguries of Innocence. Fantastic beauty, such as lurks In some wild poet when he works Without a conscience or an aim— ’Twas then great Marlbro’s mighty soul was proved, That, in the shock of changing hosts unmoved, Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, Examin’d all the dreadful scenes of war; In peaceful thought the field of death survey’d. So far as Marlborough deserved this praise he was a general in the grand manner. Does he take inspiration from the church, Directly make her rule his law of life? Not he: his own mere impulse guides the man. … Such is, for the Augustine that was once, This Canon Caponsacchi we see now. X, 1911-28. Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away: A single laugh demolished the right arm Of his own country, etc. Two eyes, Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought And seemed with their serene and azure smiles To beckon. MÉmoires d’Outre-Tombe, December, 1821. Demandant aux forÊts, À la mer, À la plaine, Aux brises du matin, À toute heure, À tout lieu, La femme de son Âme et de son premier voeu! Prenant pour fiancÉe un rÊve, une ombre vaine, Et fouillant dans le coeur d’une hÉcatombe humaine, PrÊtre dÉsespÉrÉ, pour y trouver son Dieu. A. de Musset, Namouna. “Don Juan avait en lui cet amour pour la femme idÉale; il a couru le monde serrant et brisant de dÉpit dans ses bras toutes les imparfaites images qu’il croyait un moment aimer; et il est mort ÉpuisÉ de fatigue, consumÉ de son insatiable amour.” PrÉvost-Paradol, Lettres, 149. Aimer c’est le grand point. Qu’importe la maÎtresse? Qu’importe le flacon pourvu qu’on ait l’ivresse? How sad and bad and mad it was— But then, how it was sweet. In his Stances À Madame Lullin Voltaire is at least as poetical and nearer to normal experience: Quel mortel s’est jamais flattÉ D’un rendez-vous À l’agonie? Prune thou thy words, The thoughts control That o’er thee swell and throng. They will condense within the soul And change to purpose strong. But he who lets his feelings run In soft, luxurious flow, Shrinks when hard service must be done And faints at every foe. Seated within this body’s car The silent Self is driven afar, And the five senses at the pole Like steeds are tugging restive of control. And if the driver lose his way, Or the reins sunder, who can say In what blind paths, what pits of fear Will plunge the chargers in their mad career? Drive well, O mind, use all thy art, Thou charioteer!—O feeling Heart, Be thou a bridle firm and strong! For the Lord rideth and the way is long. Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, Bade the gay bloom of vernal landskips rise, Or autumn’s varied shades embrown the walls: Now the black tempest strikes the astonish’d eyes; Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies; The trembling sun now plays o’er ocean blue, And now rude mountains frown amid the skies; Whate’er Lorrain light touch’d with softening hue, Or savage Rosa dash’d, or learned Poussin drew. (C. I, st. 38.) Disparaissez, monuments du gÉnie, Pares, jardins immortels, que Le NÔtre a plantÉs; De vos dehors pompeux l’exacte symmÉtrie, Etonne vainement mes regards attristÉs. J’aime bien mieux ce dÉsordre bizarre, Et la variÉtÉ de ces riches tableaux Que disperse l’Anglais d’une main moins avare. Bertin, 19e ElÉgie of Les Amours. ASIA My soul is an enchanted boat, Which like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside a helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. It seems to float ever, for ever Upon that many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses! … Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions In music’s most serene dominions; Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. And we sail on away, afar, Without a course, without a star, But by the instinct of sweet music driven; Till through Elysian garden islets By thee, most beautiful of pilots, Where never mortal pinnace glided The boat of my desire is guided; Realms where the air we breathe is love— Prometheus Unbound, Act II, Sc. V. I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves, etc. Cf. Lamartine: Quand la feuille des bois tombe dans la prairie, Le vent du soir s’ÉlÈve et l’arrache aux vallons; Et moi, je suis semblable À la feuille flÉtrie; Emportez-moi comme elle, orageux aquilons. L’Isolement. They care not any whit for pain or pleasure, That seems to us the sum and end of all, Dumb force and barren number are their measure, What shall be shall be, tho’ the great earth fall, They take no heed of man or man’s deserving, Reck not what happy lives they make or mar, Work out their fatal will unswerv’d, unswerving, And know not that they are! I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile, Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. … A Picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife, etc. Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a picture of Peele Castle in a storm. 1. Sensibility (Nouvelle HÉloÏse, 1761). 2. Weltschmerz (Schiller’s Æsthetic Letters, 1795). 3. Mal du siÈcle (Hugo’s Hernani, 1830). 4. Pessimism (vogue of Schopenhauer and Stendhal, 1865). 5. Neurasthenia (culmination of fin de siÈcle movement, 1900). Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine. Cf. Chateaubriand: Essai sur les RÉvolutions, Pt. II, ch. LVIII: “Ces jouissances sont trop poignantes: telle est notre faiblesse, que les plaisirs exquis deviennent des douleurs,” etc. Lorsque, par un dÉcret des puissances suprÊmes, Le PoÈte apparaÎt dans ce monde ennuyÉ, Sa mÈre ÉpouvantÉe et pleine de blasphÈmes Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitiÉ. Fleurs du mal: BÉnÉdiction. Cf. Nouvelle HÉloÏse, Pt. III, Lettre XXVI: “Ciel inexorable! … O ma mÈre, pourquoi vous donna-t-il un fils dans sa colÈre?” Desire with loathing strangely mix’d, On wild or hateful objects fix’d. In youth we love the darksome lawn Brushed by the owlet’s wing. Then Twilight is preferred to Dawn And autumn to the spring. Sad fancies do we then affect In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness. Ode to Lycoris. Et Byron … disparaÎt aux yeux du pÂtre ÉpouvantÉ. (See E. EstÈve, Byron en France, 147). O! why was I born with a different face? Why was I not born like the rest of my race? When I look, each one starts; when I speak, I offend; Then I’m silent and passive and lose every friend. The antechapel where the statue stood Of Newton with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind for ever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone. (Prelude III, 61-63.) Cf. also the line in the Sonnet on Milton: His soul was like a star and dwelt apart. gratified to gain That positive eternity of pain Instead of this insufferable inane. L’orage est dans ma voix, l’Éclair est sur ma bouche; Aussi, loin de m’aimer, voilÀ qu’ils tremblent tous, Et quand j’ouvre les bras, on tombe À mes genoux. Que vous ai-je donc fait pour Être votre Élu? … HÉlas! je suis, Seigneur, puissant et solitaire, Laissez-moi m’endormir du sommeil de la terre! Le juste opposera le dÉdain À l’absence Et ne rÉpondra plus que par un froid silence Au silence Éternel de la DivinitÉ. A piteous lot it were to flee from man Yet not rejoice in Nature. (Excursion, IV, 514.) This lot was Vigny’s: Ne me laisse jamais seul avec la Nature Car je la connais trop pour n’en avoir pas peur. |