I University of California. GrIFT OF •* The Class of 188$. Aceegiom no. Z>/$<32/ i-ffii WW35 HHR3 ■a ^3 o o > 3 REMAINS IN VERSE AND PROSE. REMAINS IN VERSE AND PROSE ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM. WITH A PREFACE AND MEMOIR. VATTENE IN PACE, ALMA BEATA E BELLA. Ariosto. NEW EDITION. XA/ITU p^DT^IT JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 1869. 2 /e$1>~- CONTENTS. PAGE ADVERTISEMENT vii PREFACE— MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM . . ix MEMOIR OF HENRY FITZMATJRICE HALLAM . . . xlvii MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS IN BLANK VERSE . . . 1 TIMBUCTOO 20 SONNETS. ALLA STATUA, CH' E A FIBENZE DI LORENZO DUCA D'URBINO, SCOLTA DA MICHEL ANGIOLO . . . . . 31 GENOVA BELLA, A CUI L' ALTIERA VOCE . . .32 TO AN ENGLISH LADY . . . . . . . 33 SCRITTO SUL LAGO D'ALBANO . . . . . .34 ON A JLADY SUFFERING SEVERE ILLNESS . . . . 35 ALLA SIRENA, NUME AVITO DI NAPOLI . . . . 36 ON THE PICTURE OF THE THREE FATES IN THE PALAZZO PITTI, AT FLORENCE ........ 37 TO MALEK ........ 38 OH BLESSING AND DELIGHT OF MY YOUNG HEART . . . 39 EVEN THUS, METHINKS, A CITY REARED SHOULD BE .40 TO AN ADMIRED LADY .....•• STANZAS. WRITTEN AFTER VISITING MELROSE ABBEY IN COMPANY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT ..... WRITTEN AT CAUDEBEC IN NORMANDY A FAREWELL TO GLENARBAC ..... WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE TAY . ON MY SISTER'S BIRTHDAY . . FROM SCHILLER ..»•••' 41 42 46 48 51 54 59 vi CONTENTS. PAGE LINES SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF PYGMALION . . 61 TO TWO SISTERS 63 THIS WAS MY LAY IN SAD NOCTURNAL HOUR . . 68 TO THE LOVED ONE 70 SONNET. TO MY MOTHER 75 A lover's REPROOF 76 SONNET. A MELANCHOLY THOUGHT HAD LAID ME LOW. 78 A SCENE IN SUMMER 79 SONNETS. OH POETRY, OH RAREST SPIRIT OF ALL . . . .81 ALAS ! THAT SOMETIMES EVEN A DUTEOUS LIFE . . 82 WHY THROBBEST THOU, MY HEART, WHY THICKLY BREATHEST 83 STILL HERE — THOU HAST NOT FADED FROM MY SIGHT . . 84 LADY, I BID THEE TO A SUNNY DOME . . . . . 85 SPEED YE, WARM HOURS, ALONG TH' APPOINTED PATH . . 86 WHEN GENTLE FINGERS CEASE TO TOUCH THE STRING . . 87 THE GARDEN TREES ARE BUSY WITH THE SHOWER . . 88 SCENE AT ROME ' . . 89 ON SYMPATHY .97 ORATION ON THE INFLUENCE OF ITALIAN WORKS OF IMAGINATION ON THE SAME CLASS OF COMPOSITIONS IN ENGLAND 112 ESSAY ON THE PHILOSOPHICAL WRITINGS OF CICERO . . 146 REMARKS ON PROFESSOR ROSSETTl'S "DISQUISIZIONI SULLO SPIRITO ANTIPAPALE" . . . . . 211 EXTRACT FROM A REVIEW OF TENNYSON'S POEMS . . 294 PETRARCH 306 BURKE 319 VOLTAIRE . . . 332 THEODIC&A NOVISSIMA, OR HINTS FOR AN EFFECTUAL CONSTRUCTION OF THE HIGHER PHILOSOPHY ON THE BASIS OF REVELATION 341 ADVERTISEMENT. The Editor of the following Poems has been induced, after the lapse of many years, to reprint a limited number of copies. Arthur Henry Hallam had the happiness to possess the friendship of one, then as young as himself, whose name has risen to the highest place among our living poets. What this distinguished person felt for one so early torn from him, has been displayed in those beautiful poems, intitled " In Memoriam," which both here and in America have been read with admiration and delight. The image of Arthur hovers, like a dim shadow, over these ; and as the original copies of his own produc- tions, given solely to his friends, are not easily to be procured, it has been thought by the Editor, after much deliberation, that others may be interested in VI 11 ADVERTISEMENT. possessing them. A few have not been reprinted in this Edition. Another great calamity fell on the Editor about two years since ; a second time he was bereaved of a son, whose striking resemblance in character to Arthur had long been his consolation and his pride. It is, therefore, appropriate on the present occasion to sub- join a short memoir of Henry Fitzmauriee Hallam, drawn up soon after his death by two very intimate friends, Henry Sumner Maine and Franklin Lushing- ton. . Never were brothers more akin in every moral excellence of disposition, or in their habitual pursuits, or in a depth of thought which did not exclude a lively perception of what was passing before them, and an entire enjoyment of friendly intercourse. Match, 1853. PREFACE. The writer of the following Poems and Essays was so well known to the greater part of those into whose hands they are likely to come, that it may seem almost superfluous to commemorate a name little likely to fade from their recollection. Yet it is a pious, though at the same time, a yery painful office, incumbent on the Editor, to furnish a few notices of a life as remarkable for the early splendour of genius, and for uniform moral excellence, as that of any one who has fallen under his observation ; especially as some there must probably be, who will read these pages with little previous knowledge of him to whom they relate. Arthur Henry Hallam was born in Bedford Place, London, on the 1st of February, 1811, Very few years had elapsed before his parents observed strong indi- cations of his future character, in a peculiar clearness X PREFACE. of perception, a facility of acquiring knowledge, and, above all, in an undeviating sweetness of disposi- tion, and adherence to his sense of what was right and becoming. As he advanced to another stage of childhood, it was rendered still more manifest that he would be distinguished from ordinary persons, by an increasing thoughtfulness, and a fondness for a class of books, which in general are so little intelli- gible to boys of his age, that they excite in them no kind of interest-. In the summer of 1818 he spent some months with his parents in Germany and Switzerland, and became familiar with the French language, which he had already learned to read with facility. He had gone through the elements of Latin before this time ; but that language having been laid aside during his tour, it was found upon his return that, a variety of new scenes having effaced it from his memory, it was necessary to begin again with the first rudiments. He was nearly eight years old at this time ; and in little more than twelve months he could read Latin with tolerable facility. In this period his mind was developing itself more rapidly than before ; he now felt a keen relish for dramatic poetry, and wrote PREFACE. XI several tragedies, if we may so call them, either in prose or verse, with a more precocious display of talents than the Editor remembers to have met with in any other individual. The natural pride, however, of his parents did not blind them to the uncertainty that belongs to all premature efforts of the mind ; and they so carefully avoided everything like a boastful display of blossoms, which, in many cases, have withered away in barren luxuriance, that the circumstance of these compositions was hardly ever mentioned out of their own family. In the spring of 1820, Arthur was placed under the Rev. W. Carmalt, at Putney, where he remained nearly two years. After leaving this school, he went abroad again for some months ; and in October, 1822, became the pupil of the Rev. E. C. Hawtrey, an assistant master of Eton College. At Eton he con- tinued till the summer of 1827. He was now become a good, though not perhaps a first-rate, scholar in the Latin and Greek languages. The loss of time, rela- tively to this object, in travelling, but, far more, his increasing avidity for a different kind of knowledge, and the strong bent of his mind to subjects which exercise other faculties than such as the acquirement of languages calls into play, will sufficiently account Xll PKEFACE. for what might seem a comparative deficiency in clas- sical learning. It can only however be reckoned one, comparatively to his other attainments, and to his re- markable facility in mastering the modern languages. The Editor has thought it not improper to print in the following pages an Eton exercise, which, as written before the age of fourteen, though not free from metrical and other errors, appears, perhaps, to a partial judgment, far above the level of such composi- tions. It is remarkable that he should have selected the story of Ugolino, from a poet with whom, and with whose language he was then but very slightly acquainted, but who was afterwards to become, more perhaps than any other, the master mover of his spirit. It may be added, that great judgment and taste are perceptible in this translation, which is by no means a literal one ; and in which the phraseology of Sophocles is not ill substituted, in some passages, for that of Dante. The Latin poetry of an Etonian is generally reckoned at that school, the chief test of his literary talent. That of Arthur was good without being excellent ; he never wanted depth of thought, or truth of feeling ; but it is only in a few rare instances, if altogether PREFACE. xiii in any, that an original mind has been known to utter itself freely and vigorously, without sacrifice of purity, in a language the capacities of which are so imperfectly understood ; and in his productions there was not the thorough conformity to an ancient model which is required for perfect elegance in Latin verse. He took no great pleasure in this sort of com- position ; and perhaps never returned to it of his own accord. In the latter part of his residence at Eton, he was led away more and more by the predominant bias of his mind from the exclusive study of ancient litera- ture. The poets of England, especially the older dramatists, came with greater attraction over his spirit. He loved Fletcher and some of Fletcher's contemporaries, for their energy of language and intenseness of feeling ; but it was in Shakspeare alone that he found the fulness of * soul which seemed to slake the thirst of his own rapidly expanding genius for an inexhaustible fountain of thought and emotion. He knew Shakspeare thoroughly ; and indeed his acquaintance with the early poetry of this country was very extensive. Among the modern poets, Byron was at this time far above the rest and almost exclusively his favourite ; a preference which in XIV PREFACE. later years he transferred altogether to Wordsworth and Shelley. He became, when about fifteen years old, a member of the debating society established among the elder boys, in which he took great interest ; and this served to confirm the bias of his intellect towards the moral and political philosophy of modern times. It was probably however of important utility in giving him that command of his own language which he possessed, as the following Essays will show, in a very superior degree, and in exercising those powers of argumenta- tive discussion which now displayed themselves as eminently characteristic of his mind. It was a neces- sary consequence that he declined still more from the usual paths of study, and abated perhaps somewhat of his regard for the writers of antiquity. It must not be understood, nevertheless, as most of those who read these pages will be aware, that he ever lost his sensibility to those ever-living effusions of genius which the ancient languages preserve. He loved iEschylus and Sophocles (to Euripides he hardly did justice), Lucretius and Virgil ; if he did not seem so much drawn to Homer as might at first be expected, this may probably be accounted for by his increasing taste for philosophical poetry. PREFACE, XV In the early part of 1827, Arthur took a part in the Eton Miscellany, a periodical publication, in which some of his friends in the debating society were concerned. He wrote in this, besides a few papers in prose, a little poem on a story connected with the Lake of Killarney. It has not been thought by the Editor advisable, upon the whole, to reprint these lines ; though, in his opinion, they bear very striking marks of superior powers. This was almost the first poetry that Arthur had written, except the childish tragedies above mentioned. No one was ever less inclined to the trick of versifying. Poetry with him was not an amusement, but the natural and almost necessary language of genuine emotion ; and it was not till the discipline of serious reflection, and the approach of manhood gave a reality and intense- ness to such emotions, that he learned the capacities of his own genius. That he was a poet by nature these remains will sufficiently prove ; but certainly he was far removed from being a versifier by nature ; nor was he probably able to perform, what he scarce ever attempted, to write easily and elegantly on an ordinary subject. The lines in p. 61, on the story of Pygmalion, are so far an exception, that they arose out of a momentary amusement of society ; but he could not avoid, even in these, his own grave tone of poetry. XVI PREFACE. Upon leaving Eton in the summer of 1827, he accompanied his parents to the Continent, and passed eight months in Italy. This introduction to new scenes of nature and art, and to new sources of intel- lectual delight, at the very period of transition from boyhood to youth, sealed no doubt the peculiar charac- ter of his mind, and taught him, too soon for his peace, to sound those depths of thought and feeling, from which, after this time, all that he wrote was derived. He had, when he passed the Alps, only a moderate acquaintance with the Italian language ; but during his residence in the country, he came to speak it with perfect fluency, and with a pure Sienese pronuncia- tion. In its study he was much assisted by his friend and instructor, the Abbate Pifferi, who encouraged him to his first attempts at versification. The few sonnets which are now printed, were, it is to be remembered, written by a foreigner, hardly seventeen years old, and after a very short stay in Italy. The Editor might not, probably, have suffered them to appear, even in this private manner, upon his own judgment. But he knew that the greatest living writer of Italy, to whom they were shown some time since at Milan, by the author's excellent friend, Mr. Richard Milnes, had expressed himself in terms of high approbation ; and he is able to confirm this PREFACE. Xvii by the testimony of Mr. Panizzi, which he must take the liberty to insert in his own words : " My dear Sir, "I do not know how to express myself respecting the Italian sonnets which I have had the pleasure to read several times, lest I might appear blinded by my affection for the memory of their lamented author. They are much superior not only to what foreigners have written, but to what I thought possible for them to write in Italian. I have formed this opinion after having perused the poems repeatedly last evening as well as this morning, and tried (although in vain) to forget by whom they were written." The growing intimacy of Arthur with Italian poetry, led him naturally to that of Dante. No poet was so congenial to the character of his own reflective mind ; in none other could he so abundantly find that disdain of flowery redundance, that perpetual reference of the sensible to the ideal, that aspiration for somewhat better and less fleeting than earthly things, to which his inmost soul responded. Like all genuine wor- shippers of the great Florentine Poet, he rated the Inferno below the two later portions of the Divina XV111 PREFACE. Comedia ; there was nothing even to revolt his taste, but rather much to attract it, in the scholastic theo- logy and mystic visions of the Paradiso. Petrarch he greatly admired, though with less idolatry than Dante ; and the sonnets here printed will show to all competent judges how fully he had imbibed the spirit, without servile centonism, of the best writers in that style of composition who flourished in the 16th century. But Poetry was not an absorbing passion at this time in his mind. His eyes were fixed on the best pictures with silent, intense delight. He had a deep and just perception of what was beautiful in this Art ; at least in its higher schools ; for he did not pay much regard, or perhaps quite do justice, to the masters of the 17th century. To technical criticism he made no sort of pretension ; painting was to him but the visible language of emotion ; and where it did not aim at exciting it, or employed inadequate means, his admira- tion would be withheld. Hence he highly prized the ancient paintings, both Italian and German, of the age which preceded the fall development of Art. But he was almost as enthusiastic an admirer of the Venetian, as of the Tuscan and Koman Schools ; con- sidering these Masters as reaching the same end by PREFACE. XIX the different agencies of form and colour. This pre- dilection for the sensitive beauties of painting is some- what analogous to his fondness for harmony of verse, on which he laid more stress than poets so thoughtful are apt to do. In one of the last days of his life, he lingered long among the fine Venetian pictures of the Imperial Gallery at Vienna* He returned to England in June, 1828 ; and in the following October went down to reside at Cambridge ; having been entered on the boards of Trinity College before his departure to the Continent. He was the pupil of the Rev. Wm. Whewell. In some respects, as soon became manifest, he was not formed to obtain great academical reputation. An acquaintance with the learned languages, considerable at the school where he was educated, but not improved, to say the least, by the intermission of a year, during which his mind had been so occupied by other pursuits, that he had thought little of antiquity even in Rome itself, though abundantly sufficient for the gratification of taste and the acquisition of knowledge, was sure to prove inadequate to the searching scrutiny of modern examinations. He soon, therefore, saw reason to re- nounce all competition of this kind; nor did he ever so much as attempt any Greek or Latin composition b2 XX PEEFACE. during his stay at Cambridge. In truth, he was very indifferent to success of this kind ; and conscious, as he must have been, of a high reputation among his contemporaries, he could not think that he stood in need of any University distinctions. The Editor became, by degrees, almost equally indifferent to what he perceived to be so uncongenial to Arthur's mind. It was, however, to be regretted, that he never paid the least attention to mathematical studies. That he should not prosecute them with the diligence usual at Cambridge, was of course to be expected; yet his clearness and acumen would certainly have enabled him to master the principles of geometrical reasoning; nor, in fact, did he so much find a difficulty in appre- hending demonstrations, as a want of interest, and a consequent inability to retain them in his memory. A little more practice in the strict logic of geometry, a little more familiarity with the physical laws of the universe, and the phenomena to which they relate, would possibly have repressed the tendency to vague and mystical speculation which he was too fond of indulging. In the philosophy of the human mind, he was in no danger of the materialising theories of some ancient and modern schools ; but in shunning this extreme, he might sometimes forget that, in the honest pursuit of truth, we can shut our eyes to no PREFACE. XXI real phenomena, and that the physiology of man must always enter into any valid scheme of his psychology. * The comparative inferiority which he might show in the usual trials of knowledge, sprung in a great measure from the want of a prompt and accurate memory. It was the faculty wherein he shone the least, according to ordinary observation ; though his very extensive reach of literature, and his rapidity in acquiring languages, sufficed to prove that it was capable of being largely exercised. He could remem- ber anything, as a friend observed to the Editor, that was associated with an idea. But he seemed, at least after he reached manhood, to want almost wholly the power, so common with inferior under- standings, of retaining with regularity and exactness, a number of unimportant uninteresting particulars. It would have been nearly impossible to make him recollect for three days, the date of the battle of Marathon, or the names in order of the Athenian months. Nor could he repeat poetry, much as he loved it, with the correctness often found in young men. It is not improbable that a more steady dis- cipline in early life would have strengthened this faculty, or that he might have supplied this de- XX11 PKEFACE. ficiency by some technical devices ; but where the higher powers of intellect were so extraordinarily manifested, it would have been preposterous to com- plain of what may perhaps have been a necessary consequence of their amplitude, or at least a natural result of their exercise. But another reason may be given for his deficiency in those unremitting labours which the course* of academical education, in the present times, is sup- posed to exact from those who aspire to its distinc- tions. In the first year of his residence at Cambridge, symptoms of disordered health, especially in the cir- culatory system, began to show themselves ; and it is by no means improbable, that these were indications of a tendency to derangement of the vital functions, which became ultimately fatal. A too rapid determi- nation of blood towards the brain, with its concomi- tant uneasy sensations, rendered him frequently inca- pable of mental fatigue. He had indeed once before, at Florence, been affected by symptoms not unlike these. His intensity of reflection and feeling also brought on occasionally a considerable depression of spirits, which had been painfully observed at times by those who watched him most from the time of his leaving Eton, and even before. It was not till PREFACE. XXU1 after several months that he regained a less morbid condition of mind and body. The same irregularity of circulation returned again in the next spring, but was of less duration. During the third year of his Cambridge life, he appeared in much better health. In this year (1831) he obtained the first College Prize for an English declamation. The subject chosen by him was the conduct of the Independent party during the Civil War. This exercise was greatly admired at the time, but was never printed. In con- sequence of this success, it became incumbent on him, according to the custom of the College, to deliver an Oration in the Chapel immediately before the Christmas vacation of the same year. On this occasion, he selected a subject very congenial to his own turn of thought and favourite study, — the Influence of Italian upon English Literature. He had previously gained another prize for an English essay on the philosophical writings of Cicero. This Essay is, perhaps, too ex- cursive from the prescribed subject ; but his mind was so deeply imbued with the higher philosophy, especially that of Plato, with which he was very conversant, that he could not be expected to dwell much on the praises of Cicero in that respect. XXIV PKEFACE. Though the bent of Arthur's mind by no means inclined him to strict research into facts, he was full as much conversant with the great features of ancient and modern History, as from the course of his other studies and the habits of his life, it was possible to expect. He reckoned them, as great minds always do, the ground-works of moral and political philosophy, and took no pains to acquire any knowledge of this sort, from which a principle could not be derived or illustrated. To some parts of English history, and to that of the French Revolution, he had paid considerable attention. He had not read nearly so much of the Greek and Latin Historians, as of the Philosophers and Poets. In the history of literary, and especially of philosophical and religious opinions, he was deeply versed, as much so as it is possible to apply that term at his age. The following pages exhibit proofs of an acquaintance, not crude or superficial, with that important branch of Literature. His political judgments were invariably prompted by his strong sense of right and justice. These, in so young a person, were naturally rather fluctuating, and subject to the correction of advancing knowledge and experience. Ardent in the cause of those he deemed to be oppressed, of which, in one instance, he was led PREFACE. XXV to give a proof with more of energy and enthusiasm than discretion, he was deeply attached to the ancient institutions of his country. He spoke French readily, though with less elegance than Italian, till from disuse he lost much of his fluency in the latter. In his last fatal tour in Germany, he was rapidly acquiring a readiness in the language of that country. The whole range of French literature was almost as familiar to him as that of England. The society in which Arthur lived most intimately, at Eton and at the University, was formed of young men, eminent for natural ability and for delight in, what he sought above all things, the knowledge of truth, and the perception of beauty. They who loved and admired him living, and who now revere his sacred memory, as of one to whom, in the fondness of regret, they admit of no rival, know best what he was in the daily commerce of Life ; and his eulogy should, on every account, better come from hearts, which, if partial, have been rendered so by the experience of friendship, not by the affection of nature. One of his most valued friends has kindly made a communication to the Editor, which he cannot but insert in this place. XXVI PREFACE. "March 11, 1834. "My dear Sir, " I have delayed writing longer than I thought to have done ; but dwelling upon the pleasant hours of my intercourse with Arthur, has brought with it a sense of changes and losses, which has, I think, taken away all my spirits. At best, I cannot pretend to give you anything like an adequate account of his habits and studies, even during the few years of our friendship. My own mind lagged so far behind his, that I can be no fit judge of his career ; besides, the studies which were then my business lay in a different direction ; and we were seldom together, except in the ordinary hours of relaxtion, or when a truant disposition stretched them later into the evening. I can scarcely hope to describe to you the feelings with which I regarded him, much less the daily beauty of his life out of which they grew. Numberless scenes, indeed, grave and gay, come back upon me, which mark him to me as the most accomplished person I have known or shall know. But the displays of his gifts and graces were not for show ; they sprang naturally out of the passing occasion, and being separated from it, would lose their life and meaning. And, perhaps, the very brightness and gaiety of those hours, would contrast too harshly with the shadow which has passed PREFACE. XXY11 over them. Outwardly, I do not know that there was anything remarkable in his habits, except an irregu- larity with regard to times and places of study, which may seem surprising in one whose progress in every direction was so eminently great and rapid. He was commonly to be found in some friend's room, reading or conversing ; a habit which he himself felt to be a fault and a loss ; and he had occasional fits of refor- mation, when he adhered to hours and plans of reading, with a perseverance which left no doubt of his power to become a strict economiser of time. I dare say he lost something by this irregularity ; but less, perhaps, than one would at first imagine. I never saw him idle. He might seem to be lounging or only amusing him- self ; but his mind, as far as I could judge, was always active, and active for good. In fact, his energy and quickness of apprehension did not stand in need of outward aids. He could read or discuss metaphysics as he lay on the sofa after dinner, surrounded by a noisy party, with as much care and acuteness as if he had been alone ; and that on such subjects he could never have contented himself with idle or slovenly thinking, the writings he has left sufficiently prove. In other respects, his habits were like those of his companions. He was fond of society ; the society (at least) which he could command at Cambridge. He moved chiefly XXV111 PREFACE. in a set of men of literary habits, remarkable for free and friendly intercourse, whose characters, talents, and opinions, of every complexion, were brought into continual collision, all licence of discussion permitted, and no offence taken. And he was looked up to by all as the life and grace of the party. His studies again (though, as I said, I am not the person best qualified to speak of them), were, upon the whole, desultory. He pursued all with vigour and effect; but I think none (while he was among us, at least,) systematically. His chief pleasure and strength lay certainly in metaphysical analysis. He would read any metaphysical book, under any circumstances, with avidity; and I never knew him decline a metaphysical discussion; He would always pursue the argument eagerly to the end, and follow his antagonist into the most difficult places. But, indeed, nothing in the shape of literature or philosophy came amiss to him ; there was no kind of intellectual power which did not seem native to him ; no kind of discussion in which he could not take an active and brilliant part. If he had not as yet made the very most of his powers in any one path, that loss would have been amply made up in the end by the fuller and more complete development of the whole mind. In the end, he would have found out his vocation; his other powers would have subsided into PKEFACE. XXIX their natural subordination, and his range of thought in the chosen path would have been proportionably enlarged. As it is, the compositions which he has left (marvellous as they are), are inadequate evidences of his actual power, except to those who had watched the workings of his mind, and seen that his mighty spirit (beautiful and powerful as it had already grown), yet bore all the marks of youth, and growth, and ripening promise. His powers had not yet arranged themselves into the harmony for which they were designed. He sometimes allowed one to interfere with the due exercise of another. Thus, his genius for metaphysical analysis sometimes interfered with his genius for poetry; and his natural skill in the dazzling fence of rhetoric was in danger of misleading and bewildering him in his higher vocation of philosopher. Moreover, he was not, it appeared to me, a very patient thinker. He read, thought, and composed with great rapidity ; sometimes, as I used to tell him, with more haste than speed,— so that he did not always do full justice either to his author, or himself, or his reader. In anticipating his. author's meaning too hastily, he sometimes misconceived. His own theories he was constantly changing and modifying ; and he generally demanded from his reader, or hearer, a comprehension as quick and subtle as his own. Perhaps I am speaking XXX PKEFACE. ignorantly; — this was an old subject of dispute between him and myself. But, if I am right, it seems due to his memory that it should be known how far what he had done falls short of what a few years hence he would have done, — how far his vast and various powers yet were from having attained their fall stature and mature proportions. The distinctions which the University holds out, he set little value on ; or there is no doubt he might have distinguished himself without difficulty in either line. But in mathematics, for which he was in some respects singularly qualified, he declined the drudgery of the apprenticeship ; and, as a scholar, he was content to feel and enjoy (which no man did with a finer relish) the classical writings, without affecting accurate or curious learning. For myself, I differed from him on many points, both of politics, literature, and philosophy ; but our disputes never for a moment blinded me to the excellence of his gifts, and the weight of his opinion, and the light which his conver- sation threw on every subject, where we differed or where we agreed. I have met with no man his superior in metaphysical subtlety ; no man his equal as a philo- sophical critic on works of taste ; no man whose views on all subjects connected with the duties and digni- ties of humanity were more large, more generous, and enlightened. I have thus frankly given you my opinion PREFACE. XXXI of his intellectual powers ; not because I can attach any value to it, nor, I think, would he have done so, but because it may be interesting to you to know the esti- mation he was held in by his companions, and the effect which his society produced upon their minds. Of his character as a friend and companion, I can speak with more confidence. While we were together, it left me nothing to desire ; now that we are parted, there are but two things which I could wish had been otherwise, — that I had known him sooner, and that I had been a more careful steward of the treasure while it lasted. But how could I have guessed how soon it was to be withdrawn ? For the rest, I look back upon those days with unmixed comfort ; not a word ever passed between us that I need now wish unsaid. Perhaps I ought to mention that when I first knew him, he was subject to occasional fits of mental depression, which gradually grew fewer and fainter, and had at length, I thought, disappeared, or merged in a peaceful Christian faith. I have witnessed the same in other ardent and adventurous minds, and have always looked upon them as the symptom, indeed, of an imperfect moral state, but one to which the finest spirits, during the process of their purification, are most subject. I seldom saw him under these influences, and never talked with him on the subject. With me he was all summer, always cheerful, XXX11 PREFACE. always kind, pleasant in all his moods, brilliant in all companies, — 'a pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.' No man tempered wit and wisdom so gracefully ; no man was so perfectly made to be admired for his excellent accomplishments ; to be revered for his true heart and chivalrous principle ; to be delighted in for the sweetness, and gaiety, and graciousness of his life and conversation; to be loved for all his qualities. When I think on these things, and look back on what I have written, I am ashamed to think how little I have been able to say of such a man, that is calculated to give even a faint notion of how he lived and what he was. But, perhaps, I shall not mend the matter by saying more. But do not think that the feelings which I have endeavoured to express are exaggerated for the occasion. From the time that I became his familiar friend till the day of his death, I never regarded him with any other feelings. Though we lived on the freest and most careless terms, using daily all licence of raillery and criticism, he never caused in me a momentary feeling of displeasure, or annoyance, or even impatience ; and, if I had drawn up an estimate of his character in our day of careless hope, when I little dreamed Tiow soon his name might become a sacred one, I should have spoken of him in substance, even as I speak of him now." PREFACE. XXXlii The Editor is desirous to subjoin part of a letter from another of Arthur's earliest and most intimate friends, which displays much of his tastes in literature and poetry, as the last does of his philosophical pursuits : — "April 12, 1834. "I have known many young men both at Oxford and elsewhere, of whose abilities I think highly, but I never met with one whom I considered worthy of being put into competition with Arthur for a moment: * * * * and myself have often talked together on this point, and we have invariably agreed that it was of him above all his contemporaries that great and lofty expectations were to be formed. I am the more anxious to express my strong conviction of his superiority, because it seems to me that if he is judged by the works which he has left behind him, the estimate formed of his powers, however high, will yet be completely inadequate. His poetical genius, to which I principally allude, as being the one among his many eminent gifts of which I can speak with the greatest confidence, was of too stately and severe a kind to be so soon matured. Intrinsically excellent as are many of his compositions, displaying, as every- thing which he has written abundantly does, the signs of intellectual power, there was yet wanting time and XXxiv PREFACE. practice and meditation to clear away the occasional obscurities and hardnesses of his style, before it would have represented the intensity of his feelings and the loftiness of his conceptions with adequate harmony and truth. Had he been spared 'to fill,' as he himself beautifully expresses it, ' with worthy thought and deed The measure of his high desire ; ' had he chosen— which, however, from the tenor of his conversation latterly, I do not believe he would have done — to concentrate his genius upon poetry, any one who will examine candidly what he has left may easily perceive that the very highest rank among the Poets of thought and philosophy would have been at his command. As a critic there was no one upon whose taste and judgment I had so great a reliance. I never was sure that I thoroughly understood or appreciated any poem till I had discussed it with him. As was natural, the philosophical tendency of his own mind led him usually to prefer the poetry of thought to that of action ; and in accordance with this preference, —^Wordsworth among contemporary writers was, upon the whole, his favourite ; the splendour of Shelley's imagery, and the various melody of his versification, captivated him for a time, but I think that Words- PKEFACE. XXXV worth, whose depth and calmness was more congenial to the temper of his own mind than the turbulent brilliancy of Shelley, gradually regained his former ascendancy. He also admired much of Keats, espe- cially an Ode to Autumn, and one to the Nightingale ; and entertained, as is, of course, well known to you, the highest opinion of his friend Alfred Tennyson as a rising poet. But though he admired these whom I have mentioned, and many others, Dante and Shak- speare were certainly the two whom he regarded as the highest and noblest of their class. I have often heard him complain that the former was not properly appre- ciated even by his admirers, who dwell only on his gloomy power and sublimity, without adverting to the peculiar sweetness and tenderness which characterise, as he thought, so much of his poetry. Besides Shak- speare, some of the old English dramatists were among his favourite authors. He has spoken to me with enthusiasm of scenes in Webster and Heywood, and he delighted in Fletcher. Massinger, I think, did not please him so much ; I recollect his being surprised at my preferring that dramatist to Fletcher. He used to dwell particularly upon the grace of style and harmony of versification for which the latter is remark- able. Indeed, he was at all times peculiarly sensible of this merit, and was perhaps somewhat intolerant c2 XXXY1 PREFACE. of the opposite fault, considering metrical harshness to indicate a defect rather in the soul than the ear of the poet. Of Milton he always spoke with due reverence ; but I do not believe that he recurred to him with so much delight or rated him quite so high as his favourite Dante. Among the classical writers - — My bosom friend, 'tis long since we have looked Upon each other's face ; and God may will It shall be longer, ere we meet again. Awhile it seemed most strange nnto my heart That I should mourn, and thou not nigh to cheer ; That I should shrink 'mid perils, and thy spirit Far away, far, powerless to brave them with me. Now am I used to wear a lonesome heart — About me ; now the agencies of ill Have so oppressed my inward, absolute self, That feelings shared, and fully answered, scarce Would seem my own. Like a bright, singular dream Is parted from me that strong sense of love, MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. Which, as one indivisible glory, lay On both our souls, and dwelt in us, so far As we did dwell in it. A mighty presence ! Almighty, had our wills but been confirmed In consciousness of their immortal strength, Given by that inconceivable will eterne For a pure birthright, when the blank of things First owned a motive power that was not God. But thou — thy brow has ta'en no brand of grief : Thine eyes look cheerful, even as when we stood By Arno, talking of the maid we loved. In sooth I envy thee ; thou seemest pure : - But I am seared : He in whom lies the world Is coiled around the fibres of my heart, And with his serpentine, thought-withering gaze Doth fascinate the sovran rational eye. There is another world : and some have deemed It is a world of music, and of light, And human voices, and delightful forms, "Where the material shall no more be cursed By dominance of evil, but become A beauteous evolution of pure spirit, Opposite, but not warring, rather yielding New grace, and evidence of liberty. MEDITATIVE FEAGMENTS. Oh, may we recognise each other there, My bosom friend ! May we cleave to each other And love once more together ! Pray for me, That such may be the glory of our end. MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. II. A valley — and a stream of purest white Trailing its serpent form within the breast Of that embracing dale — three sinuous hills Imminent in calm beauty, and trees thereon, Crest above crest, uprising to the noon, Which dallies with their topmost tracery, Like an old playmate, whose soft welcomings Have less of ardour, because more of custom. It is an English scene : and yet methinks, Did not yon cottage dim with azure curls Of vapour the bright air, and that neat fence Gird in the comfort of its quiet walls, Or did not yon gay troop of carollers Press on the passing breeze a native rhyme, I might have deemed me in a foreign land. For, as I gaze, old visions of delight, That died with th' hour their parent, are reflected From the mysterious mirror of the mind, Mingling their forms with these, which I behold. Nay the old feelings in their several states MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. 5 Come up before me, and entwine with these Of younger birth in strangest unity. And yet who bade them forth ? Who spake to Time, That he should strike the fetters from his slaves ? Or hath he none ? Is the drear prison-house To which, 'twould seem, our spiritual acts Pass one by one, a phantom — a dim mist Enveloping our sphere of agency ? A guess, which we do hold for certainty ? I do but mock me with these questionings. Dark, dark, yea, u irrecoverably dark," Is the soul's eye : yet how it strives and battles Thorough th' impenetrable gloom to fix That master light, the secret truth of things, Which is the body of the infinite God ! , MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. Deep firmament, which art a voice of God, Speak in thy mystic accents, speak yet once : For thou hast spoken, and in such clear tone, That still the sweetness murmurs through my soul. Speak once again : with ardent orisons Oft have I worshipped thee, and still I bow, With reverence, and a feeling, like to hope, Though something worn in th' heart, by which we pray. Oh, since I last beheld thee in thy pomp Eight o'er the Siren city of the south, Rude grief and harsher sin have dealt on me The malice of their terrible impulses ; And in a withering dream my soul has lived Far from the love that lieth on thy front, As native there ; far from the poesies Which are the effluence of thy holy calm. Thou too art changed ; and that perennial light Which there a limitless dominion held, In fitful breaks doth shoot along yon mist, And trembles at its own dissimilar pureness. MEDITATIVE FKAGMENTS. Yet is thy bondage beautiful ; the clouds Drink beauty from the spirit of thy forms, Yea, from the sacred orbits borrow grace, To modulate their wayward phantasies. But they are trifles : in thyself alone, And the suffusion of thy starry light Firmly abide in their concordant joy, Beauty, and music, and primeval love : And thence may man learn an imperial truth, That duty is the being of the soul, — ■ — And in that form alone can freedom move. Such is your mighty language, lights of heaven : Oh, thrill me with its plenitude of sound, Make me to feel, not talk of, sovranty, And harmonise my spirit with my God ! ^ MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. IV. I lay within a little bowered nook, With all green leaves, nothing but green around me, And through their delicate comminglings flashed The broken light of a sunned waterfall — Ah, water of such freshness, that it was A marvel and an envy ! There I lay, And felt the joy of life for many an hour. But when the revel of sensations Gave place to meditation and discourse, I waywardly began to moralise That little theatre with its watery scene Into quaint semblances of higher things. And first methought that twined foliage Each leaf from each how different, yet all stamped With common hue of green, and similar form, Pictured in little the great human world. Sure we are leaves of one harmonious bower, Fed by a sap, that never will be scant, All-permeating, all-producing mind ; And in our several parcellings of doom MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. ! We but fulfil the beauty of the whole. Oh madness ! if a leaf should dare complain Of its dark verdure, and aspire to be The gayer, brighter thing that wantons near. Then as I looked On the pure presence of that tumbling stream, Pure amid thwarting stones and staining earth, Oh Heaven ! methought how hard it were to find A human bosom of such stubborn truth, Yet tempered so with yielding courtesy. Then something rose within my heart to say — " Maidenly virtue is the beauteous face Which this clear glass gives out so prettily : Maidenly virtue born of privacy, Lapt in a still conclusion and reserve ; Yet, when the envious winter-time is come That kills the flaunting blossoms all arow, If that perforce her steps must be abroad, Keeps, like that stream, a queenly haviour, Free from all taint of that she treads upon ; And like those hurrying atoms in their fall, A maiden's thoughts may dare the eye of day To look upon their sweet sincerity ." With that I struck into a different strain : — 10 MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. " ye wild atomies, whose headlong life Is but an impulse and coaction, Whose course hath no beginning, no, nor end ; Are ye not weary of your mazed whirls, Your tortuous deviations, and the strife Of your opposed bubblings ? Are there not In you as in all creatures, quiet moods, Deep longings for a slumber and a calm ? I never saw a bird was on the wing But with a homeward joy he seemed to fly As knowing all his toils' o'erpaid reward --Was with his chirpers in their little nest. Pines have I seen on Jura's misty height Swinging amid the whirl-blasts of the North, And shaking their old heads with laugh prolonged, As if they joyed to share the mighty life Of elements — the freedom, and the stir. But when the gale was past, and the rent air Eeturned, and the piled clouds rolled out of view, How still th' interminable forest then ! Soundless, but for the myriad forest-flies, That hum a busy little life away I' th' amplitude of those unstartled glades. Why what a rest was there ! But ye, oh ye ! MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. 11 Poor aliens from the fixed vicissitudes, That alternate throughout created things, Mocked with incessantness of motion, Where shall ye find or changement or repose ? " So spake I in the fondness of my mood. But thereat Fancy sounded me a voice Borne upward from that sparkling company : " Eepinement dwells not with the duteous free. We do th' Eternal Will ; and in that doing, Subject to no seducement or oppose, We owe a privilege, that reasoning man Hath no true touch of." At that reproof the tears Flushed to mine eyes ; and I arose, and walked With a more earnest and reverent heart Forth to the world, which God had made so fair, _ Mired now with trails of error and of sin. 12 MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. *v. WRITTEN IN VIEW OF BEN LOMOND. Mountain austere, and full of kinglihood ! Forgive me if a child of later earth, I come to bid thee hail. My days are brief, And like the mould that crumbles on thy verge, A minute's blast may shake me into dust ; But thou art of the things that never fail. Before the mystic garden, and the fruit Sung by that Shepherd-Ruler vision-blest, Thou wert ; and from thy speculative height Beheld'st the forms of other living souls. Oh, if thy dread original were not sunk I' th' mystery of universal birth, What joy to know thy tale of mammoths huge, And formings rare of the material prime, And terrible craters, cold a cycle since ! To know if then, as now, thy base was laved With moss-dark waters of a placid lake ; If then, as now, In the clear sunlight of thy verdant sides Spare islets of uncertain shadow lay. MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. 13 VI. It is a thing of trial to the heart, Of trial and of painful wonderment, To walk within a dear companion's voice And hear him speak light words of one we hold In the same compass of undoubting love. " How is it that his presence being one, His language one, his customs uniform, He bears not the like honour in the thought Of this my friend, which he hath borne in mine. It minds me of that famous Arab tale (First to expand the struggling notions Of my child brain) in which the bold poor man Was checked for lack of ' Open sesame.' Seems it my comrade standeth at the door Of that rich treasure-house, my lover's heart, Trying with keys untrue the rebel wards, And all for lack of one unsounded word To open out the sympathetic mind." Thus might a thoughtful man be eloquent, To whom that cross had chanced : yet not such 14 MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. The colour, though the nature was the same, Of the plain fact which won me to this muse. One morn, while in * * * I sojourned, That winsome Lady sitting by my side, Whom still these eyes in every place desire, We looked in quiet unison of joy On a bright summer scene* Aspiring trees Circled us, each in several dignity, Yet taking, like a band of senators, Most grandeur from their congregated calm. Afar between two leafy willow stems Visibly flowed the sun-lit Clyde : more near An infant sister frolicked on the lawn, And in sweet accents of a far-off land, Native to th' utterer, called upon her nurse To help her steps unto us : nor delayed Those tones to rouse within our inmost hearts Clear images of a delightful past. Capri's blue distance, Procida, and the light Pillowed on Baiae's wave : nor less the range Of proud Albano, backed by Puglian snows, And the green tract beside the Lateran Eose in me, and a mist came o'er my eyes : But I spoke freely of these things to her, MEDITATIVE FEAGMENTS. 15 And for awhile we walked 'mid phantom shapes In a fair universe of other days. That converse passed away, and careless talk, As is its use, brought divers fancies up, Like bubbles dancing down their rivulet A moment, then dilating into froth. At last, a chance-direction being given, I spake of Wordsworth, of that lofty mind, Enthronised in a little monarchy Of hills and waters, where no one thing is, Lifeless, or pulsing fresh with mountain strength, But pays a tribute to his shaping spirit ! Thereat the lady laughed— a gentle laugh ; For all her moods were gentle : passing sweet Are the rebukes of woman's gentleness ! But still she laughed, and asked me how long since I grew a dreamer, heretofore not wont To conjure nothings to a mighty size, Or see in Nature more than Nature owns. Then taking up the volume, where it lay Upon her table, of those hallowed songs I answered not but by their utterance. And first the tales of quiet tenderness (Sweet votive offerings of a loving life) 16 MEDITATIVE FKAGMENTS. In which the feeling dignifies the fact, I read ; then gradual rising as that sprite Indian, by recent fabler sung so well,* Clomb the slow column up to Seva's throne, I opened to her view his lofty thought More and more struggling with its walls of clay, And on all objects of our double nature, Inward, and outward, shedding holier light, " — Till disenthralled at length it soared amain In the pure regions of th' eternal same, Where nothing meets the eye but only God. Then spoke I of that intimate belief In which he nursed his spirit aquiline, How all the moving phantasies of things, And all our visual notions, shadow-like, Half hide, half show, that All-sustaining One, ^~ Whose Bibles are the leaves of lowly flowers, And the calm strength of mountains ; rippling lakes ; And the irregular howl of stormful seas ; Soft slumbering lights of even and of morn, And the unfolding of the star-lit gloom ; But whose chief presence, whose imparted self Is in the silent virtues of the heart, * See Southey's "Kehama.' MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. 17 The deep, the human heart, which with the high Still glorifies the humble, and delights To seek in every show a soul of good. Pausing from that high strain I looked to her For sympathy, for my full heart was up, And I would fain have felt another's breast Mix its quick heavings with my own : indeed The lady laughed not now, nor breathed reproach, Yet there was dullness in her calm approve, Which with my kindled temper suited not. Oh ! there is union, and a tie of blood <-< With those who speak unto the general mind, Poets and sages ! Their high privilege Bids them eschew succession's changefulness, And, like eternals, equal influence Shed on all times and places. I would be A poet, were't but for this linked delight, This consciousness of noble brotherhood, Whose joy no heaps of earth can bury up, No worldly venture minish or destroy, For it is higher, than to be personal ! Some minutes passed me by in dubious maze Of meditation lingering painfully, But then a calm grew on me, and clear faith c 18 MEDITATIYE FRAGMENTS. (So clear that I did marvel how before I came not to the level of that truth), That different halts, in Life's sad pilgrimage. With different minstrels charm the journeying soul. Not in our early love's idolatry, Not in our first ambition's flush of hope, Not while the pulse beats high within our veins, Fix we our soul in beautiful regrets, Or strive to build the philosophic mind. But when our feelings coil upon themselves • At time's rude pressure ; when the heart grows dry, And burning with immedicable thirst, As though a plague-spot seared it, while the brain Fevers with cogitations void of love, When this change comes, as come it will to most, It is a blessed God-given aid to list Some master's voice, speaking from out those depths Of reason that do border on the source Of pure emotion and of generous act. It may be that this motive swayed in me, And thinking so that day I prayed that she* Whose face, like an unruffled mountain tarn, Smiled on me till its innocent joy grew mine, Might ne'er experience any change of mood MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS. 19 So dearly bought by griefs habitual ; Much rather, if no softer path be found To bring our steps together happily, Serve the bright Muses at a separate shrine. c2 TIMBUCTOO. Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ; It must or we shall rue it ; We have a vision of our own : Ah J why should we undo it ? — Wordsworth. There was a land, which, far from human sight, Old Ocean compassed with his numerous waves, In the lone "West. Tenacious of her right, Imagination decked those unknown caves, And vacant forests, and clear peaks of ice With a transcendent beauty ; that which saves From the world's blight our primal sympathies, Still in man's heart, as some familiar shrine, Feeding the tremulous lamp of love that never dies. Poets have loved that land, and dared to twine Bound its existence memories of old time, When the good reigned ; and none in grief did pine. TIMBUCTOO. 21 Sages, and all who owned the might sublime To impress their thought upon the face of things, And teach a nation's spirit how to climb, Spake of long-lost Atlantis,* when the springs Of clear Ilissus or the Tusculan bower Were welcoming the pure rest which "Wisdom brings To her elect, the marvellous calm of power. Oft, too, some maiden, garlanding her brow With Baian roses, at eve's mystic hour, Has gazed on the sun's path, as he sank low, I* th' awful main, behind Inarime ; f And with clasped hands, and gleaming eye, " Shalt thou, First-born of light, endure in the flat sea Such intermission of thy life intense ? Thou lordly one, is there no home for thee ? " A Youth took up the voice ; "Thou speedest hence, Beautiful orb, but not to death or sleep, That feel we ; worlds invisible to sense, * The legend of the lost continent Atlantis is so well known, and its derivation from an early knowledge of America seems so natural and probable, that, had not this Poem been pretty generally censured for its obscurity, I should have thought a note on the subject superfluous. In the beautiful opening of the " Timseus," Plato has alluded to a form of this legend highly creditable to the Athenians, Which will serve to show the notions entertained of the extent, and relative importance of Atlantis. t Inarime, now the island of Ischia. 22 TIMBUCTOO. Whose course is pure, where eyes forget to weep, And th' earthly sisterhood of sorrow and love Some god putteth asunder, these shall keep Thy state imperial now : there shalt thou move Fresh hearts with warmth and joyance to rebound, By many a musical stream and solemn grove." Years lapsed in silence, and that holy ground Was still an Eden, shut from sight ; and few ' Brave souls in its idea solace found. In the last days a man arose, who knew * That ancient legend from his infancy. Yea, visions on that child's emmarvailed view Had flashed intuitive science ; and his glee Was lofty as his pensiveness, for both Wore the bright colours of the thing to be ! But when his prime of life was come, the wrath * These lines were suggested to me by the following passage in Mr. Coleridge's " Friend." " It cannot be deemed alien from the purposes of this disquisition, if we are anxious to attract the attention of our readers to the importance of this speculative meditation, even for the worldly in- terests of mankind ; and to that concurrence of nature and historic event with the great revolutionary movements of individual genius, of which so many instances occur in the study of history, how nature (why should we hesitate in saying, that which in nature itself is more than nature ?) seems to come forward in order to meet, to aid, and to reward every idea excited by a contemplation of her methods in the spirit of a filial care, and with the humility of love." — " Friend," vol. iii., p. 190. Mr. Coleridge proceeds to illustrate this by the very example of Colum- bus, and quotes some highly beautiful and applicable verses of Chiabrera. TIMBTJCTOO. 23 Of the cold world fell on him ; it did thrill His inmost self, but never quenched his faith. Still to that faith he added search, and still, As fevering with fond love of th' unknown shore, From learning's fount he strove his thirst to fill. But alway Nature seemed to meet the power Of his high mind, to aid, and to reward His reverent hope with her sublimest lore. Each sentiment that burned ; each falsehood warred Against and slain ; each novel truth inwrought— What were they, but the living lamps that starred His transit o'er the tremulous gloom of Thought ? More, and now more, their gathered brilliancy On the one master notion sending out, Which brooded ever o'er the passionate sea Of his deep soul ; but ah ! too dimly seen, And formless in its own immensity ! Last came the joy, when that phantasmal scene Lay in full glory round his outward sense ; And who had scorned before in hatred keen Refuged their baseness now : for no pretence Could wean their souls from awe ; they dared not doubt That with them walked on earth a spirit intense. So others trod his path : and much was wrought 24 TIMBUCTOO. In the new land, that made the angels weep. That innocent blood— it was not shed for nought ! My God ! it is an hour of dread, when leap Like a fire-fountain forth the energies Of Guilt, and desolate the poor man's sleep. Yet not alone for torturing agonies, Though meriting most, nor all that storm of Woe Which did entempest their pure fulgent skies, Shall the deep curse of ages cling, and grow To the foul names of those who did the deed, The lusters for the gold of Mexico ! Mute are th' ancestral voices we did heed, The tones of superhuman melody : And the " veiled maid w * is vanished, who did feed * These lines contain an allusion to that magnificent passage in Mr. Shelley's " Alastor," where he describes "the spirit of sweet human love " descending in vision on the slumbers of the wandering poet. How far I have a right to transfer " the veiled maid " to my own Poem, where she must stand for the embodiment of that love for the unseen, that voluntary concentration of our vague ideas of the Beauty that ought to be, on some one spot, or country yet undiscovered, as in the instances I have chosen, on America or the African city; this the critics, if I have any, may determine. I shall, however, be content to have trespassed against the commandments of Art, if I should have called any one's attention to that wonderful Poem, which cannot long remain in its present condition of neglect, but which, when it shall have emerged into the light, its inherit- ance will produce wonder and enthusiastic delight in thousands, who will learn as the work, like every perfect one, grows upon them, that the deep harmonies and glorious imaginations in which it is clothed, are not more TIMBUCTOO. 25 By converse high the faith of liberty In young unwithered hearts, and Virtue, and Truth, true than the great moral idea which is its permeating life. The lines alluded to are these : — ** The Poet wandering on, through Arabie And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste, And o'er the aenal mountains which pour down Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, In joy and exultation held his way, Till in the vale of Cachmire, far within Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower, Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep There came, a dream of hopes that never yet Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veiled maid Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. Her voice was like the voice of his own souL Heard in the calm of thought : its music long, Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held His inmost sense suspended in its web Of many-coloured woof and shifting hues. Knowledge and Truth and Virtue were her theme, And lofty hopes of divine liberty, Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, Herself a Poet. Soon the solemn mood Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame A permeating fire : wild numbers then She raised with voice stifled with tremulous sobs Subdued by its own pathos : her fair hands "Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp Strange symphony, and in her branching veins The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. The beating of her heart was heard to fill The pauses of her music, and her breath Tumultuously accorded with those fits Of intermitted song." 26 TIMBTTCTOO. And every thing that makes us joy to be ! Lo ! there hath passed away a glory of Youth From this our world ; and all is common now, And sense doth tyrannise o'er Love and Euth. What, is Hope dead ? and gaze we her pale brow, Like the cold statues round a Roman's bier, Then tearless travel on through tracts of human woe ? No ! there is one, one ray that lingers here, To battle with the world's o'ershadowing form, Like the last firefly of a Tuscan year, Or dying flashes of a noble storm. Beyond the clime of Tripoly, and beyond Bahr Abiad, where the lone peaks, unconform To other hills, and with rare foliage crowned, Hold converse with the Moon, a City stands Which yet no mortal guest hath ever found. Around it stretch away the level sands Into the silence : pausing in his course, The ostrich kens it from his subject lands. Here with faint longings and a subdued force, Once more was sought th J ideal aliment Of Man's most subtle being, the prime source Of all his blessings : here might still be blent Whate'er of heavenly beauty in form or sound, TIMBUCTOO. 27 Illumes the Poet's heart with ravishment. Thou fairy City which the desert mound Encompasseth, thou alien from the mass Of human guilt, I would not wish thee found ! Perchance thou art too pure, and dost surpass Too far amid th' Ideas ranged high In the Eternal Beason's perfectness, To our deject, and most imbased eye To look unharmed on thy integrity, Symbol of Love, and Truth, and all that cannot die. Thy Palaces and pleasure-domes to me Are matter of strange thought : for sure thou art A splendour in the wild : and aye to thee Did visible guardians of the Earth's great heart Bring their choice tributes, culled from many a mine, Diamond, and jasper, porphyry, and the art Of figured chrysolite : nor silver shine There wanted, nor the mightier power of gold : So wert thou reared of yore, City divine. And who are they of blisses manifold, That dwell within thee ? Spirits of delight, It may be spirits whose pure thoughts enfold^ In eminence of Being, all the light That interpenetrates this mighty all, 28 TIMBUCTOO. And doth endure in its own beauty's right. And oh ! the vision were majestical To them, indeed, of column, and of spire, And hanging garden, and hoar waterfall ! For we poor prisoners of this earthy mire, See little ; they the essence and the law Robing each thing in its peculiar tire. Yet moments have been, when in thought I saw That city rise upon me from the void, Populous with men : and phantasy would draw Such portraiture of life, that I have joyed In over-measure to behold her work, Eich with the myriad charms, by evil unalloyed. Methought I saw a nation, which did heark To Justice, and to Truth : their ways were strait, And the dread shadow, Tyranny, did lurk Nowhere about them : not to scorn, or hate A living thing was their sweet nature's bond : So every soul moved free in kingly state. Suffering they had (nor else were virtue found In these our pilgrim spirits) : gently still And as from cause external came the wound, Not like a gangrene of soul-festering ill, To taint the springs of life, and undermine TIMBUCTOO. 29 The holy strength of their majestic will. Methought I saw a face whose every line Wore the pale cast of Thought ; * a good, old man, Most eloquent, who spake of things divine. Around him youths were gathered, who did scan His countenance so grand and mild ; and drank The sweet, sad tones of Wisdom, which outran The life-blood, coursing to the heart, and sank Inward from thought to thought, till they abode 'Mid Being's dim foundations, rank by rank With those transcendent truths, arrayed by God In linked armour for untiring fight, Whose victory is, where time hath never trod. Methought I saw a maiden in the light Of beauty musing near an amaranth bower, Herself a lordly blossom. Past delight Was fused in actual sorrow by the power Of mightiest Love upon her delicate cheek ; And magical was her wailing at that hour. * These characters are of course purely ideal, and meant to show, by- way of particular diagram, that right temperament of the intellect and the heart which I have assigned to this favoured nation. I cannot, how- ever, resist the pleasure of declaring, that in the composition of the lines '* Methought I saw,"