Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 57, No. 352, February 1845

Suppose Shakspeare's ghost to have slipped quietly into the manager's box to witness the performance. Poets after death do not lose all memory of their own earthly visions. Thoughts of the fairest are with them in Paradise. At first sight of Dorinda he would have bolted.

Dryden says, that "he knew not to distinguish the blown puffy style from true sublimity." He would then have done so, and no mistake. "The fury of his fancy often transported him beyond the bounds of judgment, either in coining of new words and phrases, or racking words which were in use, into the violence of catachresis." His ears would have been jarred by Prospero's "polite conversation," so unlike what he, who had not "kept the best society," was confined to "in a barbarous age." Yet Dryden confessed that he "understood the nature of the passions," and "made his characters distinct;" so that "his failings were not so much in the passions themselves, as in his manner of expression." Unfortunately, his vocabulary was neither choice nor extensive, and he "often obscured his meaning by his words, and sometimes made it unintelligible."

"To speak justly of this whole matter: it is neither height of thought that is discommended, nor pathetic vehemence, nor any nobleness of expression in its proper place; but it is a false measure of all these, something which is like them, and is not them; it is the Bristol stone, which appears like a diamond; it is an extravagant thought instead of a sublime one; it is a roaring madness instead of vehemence; a sound of words instead of sense. If Shakspeare were stripped of all the bombasts in his passions, and dressed in the most vulgar words, we should find the beauties of his thoughts remaining; if his embroideries were burnt down, there would still be silver at the bottom of the melting-pot, but I fear (at least let me fear it for myself) that we, who ape his sounding words, have nothing of his thought, but are all outside; there is not so much as dwarf within our giant's clothes. Therefore, let not Shakspeare suffer for our sakes; it is our fault, who succeed him in an age that is more refined, if we imitate him so ill that we copy his failings only, and make a virtue of that in our writings which in his was an imperfection.

"For what remains, the excellency of that poet was, as I have said, in the more manly passions; Fletcher's in the softer. Shakspeare writ better betwixt man and man; Fletcher betwixt man and woman: consequently the one described friendship better — the other love. Yet Shakspeare taught Fletcher to write love; and Juliet and Desdemona are originals. It is true, the scholar had the softer soul, but the master had the kinder. Friendship is both a virtue and a passion essentially; love is passion only in its nature, and is not a virtue but by accident: good-nature makes friendship, but effeminacy love. Shakspeare had an universal mind, which comprehended all characters and passions; Fletcher, a more confined and limited: for though he treated love in perfection, yet honour, ambition, revenge, and generally all the stronger passions, he either touched not, or not masterly. To conclude all he was a limb of Shakspeare."

THE TOWER OF LONDON. — A POEM

By Thomas Roscoe

Part I

Proud Julian towers! ye whose grey turrets rise In hoary grandeur, mingling with the skies — Whose name — thought — image — every spot are rife With startling legends — themes of death in life! Recall the voices of wrong'd spirits fled — Echoes of life that long survived their dead; And let them tell the history of thy crimes, The present teach, and warn all future times. Time's veil withdrawn, what tragedies of woe Loom in the distance, fill the ghastly show! Oh, tell what hearts, torn from light's cheering ray, Within thy death-shades bled their lives away; What anxious hopes, strifes, agonies, and fears, In thy dread walls have linger'd years on years — Still mock'd the patient prisoner as he pray'd That death would shroud his woes — too long delay'd! Could the great Norman, with prophetic eye, Have scann'd the vista of futurity, And seen the cell-worn phantoms, one by one, Rise and descend — the father to the son — Whose purest blood, by treachery and guilt, On thy polluted scaffolds has been spilt, Methinks Ambition, with his subtle art, Had fired his hero to a nobler part. Yes! curst Ambition — spoiler of mankind — That with thy trophies lur'st the dazzled mind, That 'neath the gorgeous veil thy conquests weave, Would'st hide thy form, and Reason's eye deceive — By what strange spells still dost thou rule the mind That madly worships thee, or, tamely blind, Forbears to fathom thoughts, that at thy name Should kindle horror, and o'erwhelm with shame. Alas, that thus the human heart should pay Too willing homage to thy bloody sway; Should stoop submissive to a fiend sublime And venerate e'en the majesty of crime! How soon to those that tempt thee art thou near — To prompt, direct, and steel the heart to fear! Oh, not to such the voice of peace shall speak, Nor placid zephyr fan their fever'd cheek; Sleep ne'er shall seal their hot and blood-stain'd eye, But conscious visions ever haunt them nigh; Grandeur to them a faded flower shall be, Wealth but a thorn, and power a fruitless tree; And, as they near the tomb, with panting breast, Shrink from the dread unknown, yet hope no rest! Stern towers of strength! once bulwarks of the land, When feudal power bore sway with sovereign hand — Frown ye no more — the glory of the scene — Sad, silent witness of what crimes have been! Accurst the day when first our Norman foe Taught Albion's high-born Saxon sons to bow 'Neath victor-pride and insolence — learn to feel What earth's dark woes — when abject vassals kneel; And worse the hour when his remorseless heir, Alike uncheck'd by heaven, or earthly prayer, With lusts ignoble, fed by martial might, Usurp'd man's fair domains and native right. Ye generous spirits that protect the brave, And watch the seaman o'er the crested wave, Cast round the fearless soul your glorious spell, That fired a Hampden and inspired a Tell — Why left ye Wallace, greatest of the free, His hills' proud champion — heart of liberty — Alone to cope with tyranny and hate, To sink at last in ignominious fate? Sad Scotia wept, and still on valour's shrine Our glistening tears, like pearly dewdrops, shine, To tell the world how Albyn's hero bled, And treasure still the memory of her dead. Whose prison annals speak of thrilling deeds, How truth is tortured and how genius bleeds? Whose eye dare trace them down the tragic stream — Mark what fresh phantoms in the distance gleam, As dark and darker o'er th' ensanguined page The ruthless deed pollutes each later age? See where the rose of Bolingbroke's rich bloom Fades on the bed of martyr'd Richard's tomb! Look where the spectre babes, still smiling fair, Spring from the couch of death to realms of air! Oh, thought accurst! that uncle, guardian, foe, Should join in one to strike the murderous blow. Ask we for tears from pity's sacred fount? "Forbear!" cries vengeance — "that is my account." There is a power — an eye whose light can span The dark-laid schemes of the vain tyrant, man. Lo! where it pierces through the shades of night, And all its hideous secrets start to light — In vain earth's puny conquerors heaven defy — Their kingdom's dust, and but one throne on high. See heaven's applause support the virtuous wrong'd, And 'midst his state the despot's fears prolong'd. Thou tyrant, yes! the declaration God Himself hath utter'd — "I'm the avenging rod!" Words wing'd with fate and fire! oh, not in vain Ye cleft the air, and swept Gomorrah's plain, When, dark idolatry unmask'd, she stood The mark of heaven — a fiery solitude! And still ye sped — still mark'd the varied page In every time — through each revolving age — Wherever man trampled his fellow man, Unscared by crimes, ye marr'd his ruthless plan — Still shall ye speed till time has pass'd away, And retribution reigns o'er earth's last day. Methinks I hear from each relentless stone The spirits of thy martyr'd victims groan, And eager whispers Echo round each cell The oft repeated legend, and re-dwell, With the same fondness that bespeaks delight In childhood's heart, when on some winter's night, As stormy winds low whistle through the vale, It shuddering lists the thrilling ghostly tale. It seems but now that blood was spilt, whose stain Proclaims the dastard soul — the bloody reign Of the Eighth Harry — vampire to his wife, Who traffick'd for his divorce with her life; So fresh, so moist, each ruddy drop appears Indelible through centuries of years! And who is this whose beauteous figure moves, Onward to meet the reeking form she loves; Whose noble mien — whose dignity of grace, Extort compassion from each gazing face? 'Tis Dudley's bride! like some fair opening flower Torn from its stem — she meets fate's direst hour; Still unappall'd she views that bloody bier, Takes her last sad farewell without a tear. Each weeping muse hath told how Essex died, Favourite and victim, doom'd by female pride. How courtly Suffolk spent his latest day, And dying Raleigh penn'd his deathless lay. Here noble Strafford too severely taught How dearly royal confidence is bought; Received the warrant which demands his breath, And with a calm composure walk'd — to death. Nor 'mong the names that liberty holds dear, Shall the great Russell be forgotten here; His country's boast — each patriot's honest pride — For them he lived — for them he wept and died. And must we yet another page unfold, To glean fresh moral from the deeds of old? Ye busy spirits that pervade the air, And still with dark intents to earth repair; That goad the passions of the human breast, And bear the missives of Fate's stern behest — Say, stifle ye those thoughts that Heaven reveals — The tears of sympathy — the glow that steals O'er the young heart, or prompts soft pity's sigh — The prayer to snatch from harsh captivity The virtuous doom'd — teach but to praise — admire — Forbid to catch one spark of generous fire? The godlike wish of genius, man to bless, With rank and wealth still leaguing to oppress! Oh! when shall glory wreathe bright virtue's claim, And both to honour give a holier fame? Ye towers of death! — the noblest still your prey, Here spent in solitude their sunless day; In your wall'd graves a living doom they found; Broke o'er their night no ray, no gladd'ning sound. Yet the mind's splendour, with imprison'd wings, Rose high, and shone where the pure seraph sings; Where human thought taught conscience it was free, And burst the shackles of the Romish See. Oh, sweetest liberty! how dear to die! Bound by each sacred link;, each holy tie; To save unspotted from the spoiler's hand, Child of our heart — our own — our native land! And, oh! how dear life's latest drop to shed, To free the minds by superstition led; — To spread with holy earnest zeal abroad, That priceless gem — freedom to worship God! To keep unmingled with the world's vain lore, The faith that lightens every darken'd hour; That faith which can alone the sinner save, Prepare for death, and raise him from the grave; Show how, by yielding all, we surest prove, How humbly, deeply, truly, we can love; How much we prize that hope divinely given, The key — the seal — the passport into heaven.

Part II

What sudden blaze spreads through the crimson skies, And still in loftier volumes seems to rise? What meteor gleams, that from the fiery north, In savage grandeur fast are bursting forth, And light your very walls? Tell me, ye Towers — 'Tis Smithfield revelling in his festal hours, Fed with your captives: shrieks that wildly pierce The roaring flames now undulating fierce, And gasping struggles, mingled groans, proclaim The power of torture o'er the writhing frame. Dark are your dens, and deep your secret cells, Whose silent gloom your tale of horrors tells. Saw ye how Cranmer dared — yet fear'd to die, Trembling 'mid hopes of immortality? He stood alone; — a brighter band appears Unaw'd by threats — impregnable to fears; Who suffer'd glad the sacred truth to spread, In mild obedience to its fountain-head. And when at length our popish James would see Cold superstition bend th' unhallow'd knee, The mystic tapers on our altars burn, And clouds of incense shade the fragrant urn, Shone England's prelates faithful to their call, In bonds of truth within thy massive wall. See grace divine — see Heaven in mercy pour, The balm of peace on Albion's boasted shore. Once wrought by captive fingers on thy wall, The hero's home and prison, grave and pall, What dark lines meet the startled stranger's gaze, Thoughts that ennoble — sentiments that raise The iron'd captive from captivity, How high above the power of tyranny! — And ye that wander by the evening tide, Where mountains swell or mossy streamlets glide; That on fresh hills can hail morn's orient ray, And chant with birds your grateful hymns to day; Or seek at noon, beneath some pleasant shade, To feel the sunbeams cool'd by leafy glade — That free as air, morn, noon, and eve, can roam, Where'er you list, and nature call your home; Learn from a hopeless prisoner's words and fate, "Virtue is valour — to be patient, great!" When traced on prison walls, such words as these Arrest the eye — appall e'en while they please — "Ah! hapless he who cannot bear the weight, With patient heart of a too partial fate, For adverse times and fortunes do not kill, But rash impatience of impending ill." Yes, still they speak to bosoms that are free Within the girdle of captivity; Of spirits dauntless, who could spurn the chain Of human punishment or mortal pain; That e'en amid these precincts of despair, Dared free themselves from thraldom's jealous care — Bound but by ties of faith and virtue, be Heirs of bright hopes and immortality. Oh! great mind's proud inscriptions! Who shall tell What hand engraved those lines within that cell? What heart yet steadfast while around him stood Phantoms of death to chill his curdling blood, Could battle with despair on reason's throne, And conquer where the fiend would reign alone? Ah! who can tell what sorrows pierced his breast — Ran through each vein, usurp'd his hours of rest? What struggle nerved his trembling hand to trace With moral courage words he dared to face With acts that ask'd new efforts while he wrote To man his soul and fix his every thought! Tremble, thou tyrant! proud ambition, blush! Hearts such as these thy power can never crush. Are they forgotten? no, the rugged stone, The lap of earth on which they rested lone; The very implements of torture there — The axe, the rack, the tyrant's jealous care; Each mark that meets successive ages' eyes Speaks, trumpet-tongued, a fame that never dies; And tells the thoughtful stranger, while the tear Unbidden starts, that freedom triumph'd here — Plumed her immortal wings for nobler flight, And bore her martyr'd brave to realms of light. Nor false their faith, nor like the fleeting wind, Their spirits fled! for theirs the unprison'd mind, No tyrant-chains, no bonds of earth and time, Could hold from truth and freedom's heights sublime — From that bright heaven of science, whence they shed Fresh glory o'er man's cause for which they bled. Ask what is left? their names forgotten now? Their birth, their fortune? not a trace to show Where sleeps their dust? Go, seek the blest abode, Their mind's pure joy, the bosom of their God! Then tell if in the dull cold prison's air, And wasted to a living shadow there, Earth scarcely knew them! if they were alone Where they were cast, to pine away unknown? Friends, had they none? nor beam'd a wish to share Love, friendship, and to breathe the common air. Lost, lost to all! like some lone desert flower, Felt they unseen Time's slow consuming power, And hail'd each parting day with fond delight, As the tired pilgrim greets the waning light? No! glad bright spirits, guardians of the mind, Were with them; as the demon-powers unbind And lash their furies on the conscious breast Of earth's fell tyrants who ne'er dream of rest. Theirs, too, joy's harbinger, the thoughts aye fed With brighter objects than of earth, that shed A light within their narrow home, and gave A triumph's lustre to the yawning grave. And in that hour when the proud heart's o'erthrown, And self all-powerless, self is truly known; When pride no more could darken the free mind, But all to God in firm faith was resign'd — Then drank their souls the stream of love divine, More richly flowing than the Eastern mine; Felt heaven expanding in the heart renew'd, And more than friends in desert solitude. Peace to thy martyrs! thou art frowning now With all the array of bold and martial show; The same thy battlements with trophies dress'd, Present defiance to the hostile breast; Around thy walls the soldier keeps his ward, Scared with war's sights no more thy peaceful guard. Long may ye stand, the voice of other years, And ope, in future times, no fount of tears And sorrows like the past, such as have brought A mournful gloom and shadow o'er the thought; And if the eye one pitying drop has shed, That drop is sacred, it embalms the dead. What though a thousand years have roll'd away Since thy dread walls entomb'd their noble prey; To us they speak, ask the warm tear to flow For ills now pressing and for present woe; Bid us to succour fellow-men who haste Along the thorny road of life, and taste The bitterness of poverty, endure All that befalls the too neglected poor; And with no friend, no bounty to assist, Steal from the world unwept for and unmiss'd. What though no dungeon wrap the wasting clay, Or from the eye exclude the cheering ray; What though no tortures visibly may tear The writhing limbs, and leave their signet there; Has not chill penury a poison'd dart, Inflicting deeper wounds upon the heart? All the decrees the sternest fate may bind, To weigh the courage or display the mind — All man could bear, with heart unflinching bear, Did not a dearer part his sufferings share — Worse than the captive's fate — wife, child, his all, The husband, and the father's name, appall His very soul, and bid him thrilling feel Distraction, as he makes the vain appeal. Upon his brow, where manhood's hand had seal'd Its perfect dignity, is now reveal'd A haggard wanness; from his livid eye The manly fire has faded; cold and dry, No more it glistens to the light. His thought, To the last pitch of frantic memory wrought, Turns to the partner of his heart and woe, Who, weigh'd with grief, no lesser love can know; Despair soon haunts the hope that fills his breast, And passion's flood in tumult is express'd. Amid the plains where ample plenty spreads Her copious stores and decks the yellow meads, The outcast turns a ghastly look to heaven; Oh, not for him is Nature's plenty given; Robb'd of the birthright nature freely gave, Save that last portion freely left — a grave! Oh, that another power would rule man's heart, Uncramp its free-born will in every part; Mercy more swift, justice more just, more slow, Grandeur less prone to deal the cruel blow, To bind men's hands with fetters than with alms, And spurn the only boon that soothes and calms. England! thou dearest child of liberty; Free as thine ocean home for ever be; Thy commerce thrive; may thy deserted poor No more the pangs of poverty endure. Then shall thy Towers, proud monument! display The thousand trophies of a happier day; And genial climes, from earth's remotest shore, Their richest tributes to her genius pour, With wealth from Ind, with treasures from the West, Thy homes, thy hamlets — cities still be blest; Till virtue, truth, and justice, shall combine, And heavenly hope o'er many a bosom shine; Auspicious days hail thy fair Sovereign's reign, And happy subjects throng their golden train.

POEMS AND BALLADS OF GOETHE

No. III

Goethe, though fertile in poems of the amatory and contemplative class, was somewhat chary of putting forth his strength in the ballad. We have already selected almost every specimen of this most popular and fascinating description of poetry which is at all worthy of his genius; — at least all of them which we thought likely, after making every allowance for variety of taste, to fulfil the main object of our task — to please and not offend. It would have been quite easy for us to spin out the series by translating the whole section of ballads which relate to the loves of "the Maid of the Mill," the "Gipsy's Song" — which somewhat unaccountably has found favour in the eyes of Mrs Austin — and a few more ditties of a similar nature, all of which we bequeath, with our best wishes, as a legacy to any intrepid rédacteur who may wish to follow in our footsteps. For ourselves, we shall rigidly adhere to the rule with which we set out, and separate the wheat from the chaff, according to the best of our ability.