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

EDDERLINE'S SLEEP

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

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

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

One of his pieces we quote entire:—

THE SEA KING'S DEATH-SONG

"I'll launch my gallant bark no more,Nor smile to see how gayIts pennon dances, as we boundAlong the watery way;The wave I walk on's mine—the godI worship is the breeze;My rudder is my magic rodOf rule, on isles and seas:Blow, blow, ye winds, for lordly France,Or shores of swarthy Spain:Blow where ye list, of earth I'm lord,When monarch of the main."When last upon the surge I rode,A strong wind on me shot,And tossed me as I toss my plume,In battle fierce and hot.Three days and nights no sun I saw,Nor gentle star nor moon;Three feet of foam dash'd o'er my decks,I sang to see it—soonThe wind fell mute, forth shone the sun,Broad dimpling smiled the brine;I leap'd on Ireland's shore, and madeHalf of her riches mine."The wild hawk wets her yellow footIn blood of serf and king:Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe,And helm and cuirass ring;The foam flies from the charger's flanks,Like wreaths of winter's snow;Spears shiver, and the bright shafts startIn thousands from the bow—Strike up, strike up, my minstrels allUse tongue and tuneful chord—Be mute!—My music is the clangOf cleaving axe and sword."Cursed be the Norseman who puts trustIn mortar and in stone;Who rears a wall, or builds a tower,Or makes on earth his throne;My monarch throne's the willing wave,That bears me on the beach;My sepulchre's the deep sea surge,Where lead shall never reach;My death-song is the howling wind,That bends my quivering mast,—Bid England's maidens join the song,I there made orphans last."Mourn, all ye hawks of heaven, for meOft, oft, by frith and flood,I called ye forth to feast on kings;Who now shall give ye food?Mourn, too, thou deep-devouring sea,For of earth's proudest lordsWe served thee oft a sumptuous feastWith our sharp shining swords;Mourn, midnight, mourn, no more thou'lt hearArmed thousands shout my name.Nor see me rushing, red wet shod,Through cities doomed to flame."My race is run, my flight is flown;And, like the eagle free,That soars into the cloud and dies,I leave my life on sea.To man I yield not spear nor swordNe'er harmed me in their ire,Vain on me Europe shower'd her shafts,And Asia pour'd her fire.Nor wound nor scar my body bears,My lip made never moan,And Odin bold, who gave me life,Now comes and takes his own."Light! light there! let me get one look,—Yon is the golden sky,With all its glorious lights, and thereMy subject sea flows by;Around me all my comrades stand,Who oft have trod with meOn prince's necks, a joy that's flown,And never more may be.Now put my helmet on my head,My bright sword in my hand,That I may die as I have lived.In arms and high command."

In the prose department the most striking is the description of Abbotsford, quoted in our 339th number. There is an affecting Tale of the Times of the Martyrs, by the Rev. Edward Irving, which will repay the reader's curiosity. The Honeycomb and Bitter Gourd is a pleasing little story; and Paddy Kelleger and his Pig, is a fine bit of humour, in Mr. Croker's best style. The brief Memoir of the late Sir George Beaumont is a just tribute to the memory of that liberal patron of the Fine Arts, and is an opportune introduction into such a work as the present. The letter of Lord Byron, too, from Genoa in 1823, will be interesting to the noble poet's admirers.

Among the illustrations we can only notice the Lute, by C. Rolls, after Bonnington; Morning, by E. Goodall, from Linton's "joyful" picture; Sir W. Scott in his Study (qy. the forehead); a little "Monkeyana," by Landseer; Chillon, by Wallis, from a drawing by Clarkson Stanfield—a sublime picture; Fonthill, an exquisite scene from one of Turner's drawings; Beatrice, from a picture by Howard; the Lake View of Newstead, after Danby; the Snuff-Box, from Stephanoff; and last, though not least, Gainsborough's charming Young Cottagers, transferred to steel, by J.H. Robinson—perhaps the most attractive print in the whole series.

With this hasty notice we conclude, in the language of our announcement of the present work, "wishing the publisher many Anniversaries"

Friendship's Offering

Edited by Thomas Pringle, Esq

The present volume will support, if not increase, the literary reputation which this elegant work has enjoyed during previous years. The editor, Mr. Pringle, is a poet of no mean celebrity, and, as we are prepared to show, his contribution, independent of his editorial judgment, will do much toward the Friendship's Offering maintaining its ground among the Annuals for 1829.

There are twelve engravings and a presentation plate. Among the most beautiful of these are Cupid and Psyche, painted by J. Wood, and engraved by Finden; Campbell Castle, by E. Goodall, after G. Arnald; the Parting, from Haydon's picture now exhibiting with his Mock Election, "Chairing;" Hours of Innocence, from Landseer; La Frescura, by Le Petit, from a painting by Bone; and the Cove of Muscat, a spirited engraving by Jeavons, from the painting of Witherington. All these are of first-rate excellence; but another remains to be mentioned—Glen-Lynden, painted and engraved by Martin, a fit accompaniment for Mr. Pringle's very polished poem.

The first prose story is the Election, by Miss Mitford, with the hero a downright John Bull who reads Cobbett. The next which most attracts our attention is Contradiction, by the author of an Essay on Housekeepers—but the present is not so Shandean as the last-mentioned paper; it has, however, many good points, and want of room alone prevents our transferring it. Then comes the Covenanters, a Scottish traditionary tale of fixing interest; the Publican's Dream, by Mr. Banim, told also in the Winter's Wreath, and Gem:

Thrice the brindled cat hath mewed;

and Zalim Khan, a beautiful Peruvian tale of thirty pages, by Mr. Fraser. The French story, La Fiancée de Marques, is a novelty for an annual, but in good taste. Tropical Sun-sets, by Dr. Philip, is just to our mind and measure:—

A setting sun between the tropics is certainly one of the finest objects in nature.

From the 23rd degree north to the 27th degree south latitude, I used to stand upon the deck of the Westmoreland an hour every evening, gazing with admiration upon a scene which no effort either of the pencil or the pen can describe, so as to convey any adequate idea of it to the mind of one who has never been in the neighbourhood of the equator. I merely attempt to give you a hasty and imperfect outline.

The splendour of the scene generally commenced about twenty minutes before sun-set, when the feathery, fantastic, and regularly crystallized clouds in the higher regions of the atmosphere, became fully illumined by the sun's rays; and the fine mackerel-shaped clouds, common in these regions, were seen hanging in the concave of heaven like fleeces of burnished gold. When the sun approached the verge of the horizon, he was frequently seen encircled by a halo of splendour, which continued increasing till it covered a large space of the heavens: it then began apparently to shoot out from the body of the sun, in refulgent pencils, or radii, each as large as a rainbow, exhibiting, according to the rarity or density of the atmosphere, a display of brilliant or delicate tints, and of ever changing lights and shades of the most amazing beauty and variety. About twenty minutes after sun-set these splendid shooting rays disappeared, and were succeeded by a fine, rich glow in the heavens, in which you might easily fancy that you saw land rising out of the ocean, stretching itself before you and on every side in the most enchanting perspective, and having the glowing lustre of a bar of iron when newly withdrawn from the forge. On this brilliant ground the dense clouds which lay nearest the bottom of the horizon, presenting their dark sides to you, exhibited to the imagination all the gorgeous and picturesque appearances of arches, obelisks, mouldering towers, magnificent gardens, cities, forests, mountains, and every fantastic configuration of living creatures, and of imaginary beings; while the finely stratified clouds a little higher in the atmosphere, might really be imagined so many glorious islands of the blessed, swimming in an ocean of light.

The beauty and grandeur of the sunsets, thus imperfectly described, surpass inconceivably any thing of a similar description which I have ever witnessed, even amidst the most rich and romantic scenery of our British lakes and mountains.

Were I to attempt to account for the exquisite enjoyment on beholding the setting sun between the tropics, I should perhaps say, that it arose from the warmth, the repose, the richness, the novelty, the glory of the whole, filling the mind with the most exalted, tranquillizing, and beautiful images.

There is likewise a tale, Going to Sea, and the Ship's Crew, by Mrs. Bowdich, which equally merits commendation.

Powerful as may be the aid which the editor has received from the contributors to the "Friendship's Offering," we are bound to distinguish one of his own pieces—Glen-Lynden, a Tale of Teviot-dale, as the sun of the volume. It is in Spenserian verse, and a more graceful composition cannot be found in either of the Annuals. It is too long for entire extract, but we will attempt to string together a few of its beauties. The scenery of the Glen is thus described:—

A rustic home in Lynden's pastoral dellWith modest pride a verdant hillock crown'd:Where the bold stream, like dragon from the fell,Came glittering forth, and, gently gliding roundThe broom-clad skirts of that fair spot of ground,Danced down the vale, in wanton mazes bending;Till finding, where it reached the meadow's bound,Romantic Teviot on his bright course wending.It joined the sounding streams—with his blue waters blending.Behind a lofty wood along the steepFenced from the chill north-east this quiet glen:And green hills, gaily sprinkled o'er with sheep,Spread to the south; while by the brightening pen,Rose the blithe sound of flocks and hounds and men,At summer dawn, and gloaming; or the voiceOf children nutting in the hazelly den,Sweet mingling with the winds' and waters' noise,Attuned the softened heart with Nature to rejoice.Upon the upland height a mouldering Tower,By time and outrage marked with many a scar,Told of past days of feudal pomp and powerWhen its proud chieftains ruled the dales afar.But that was long gone by: and waste and war,And civil strife more ruthless still than they,Had quenched the lustre of Glen-Lynden's star,Which glimmered now, with dim reclining ray,O'er this secluded spot,—sole remnant of their sway.

Lynden's lord, and possessor of this tower, is now "a grave, mild, husbandman," and his wife—

She he loved in youth and loved alone,Was his.And now his pleasant home and pastoral farmAre all the world to him: he feels no stingOf restless passions; but, with grateful arm,Clasps the twin cherubs round his neck that cling,Breathing their innocent thoughts like violets in the spring.Another prattler, too, lisps on his knee,The orphan daughter of a hapless pair,Who, voyaging upon the Indian sea,Met the fierce typhon-blast—and perished there:But she was left the rustic home to shareOf those who her young mother's friends had been:An old affection thus enhanced the careWith which those faithful guardians loved to screenThis sweet forsaken flower, in their wild arbours green.But dark calamity comes aye too soon—And why anticipate its evil day?Ah, rather let us now in lovely JuneO'erlook these happy children at their play:Lo, where they gambol through the garden gay,Or round the hoary hawthorn dance and sing,Or, 'neath yon moss-grown cliff, grotesque and greySit plaiting flowery wreaths in social ring,And telling wondrous tales of the green Elfin King.Ah! evil days have fallen upon the land;A storm that brooded long has burst at last;And friends, like forest trees that closely standWith roots and branches interwoven fast,May aid awhile each other in the blast;But as when giant pines at length give wayThe groves below must share the ruin vast,So men who seemed aloof from Fortune's swayFall crushed beneath the shock of loftier than they.Even so it fared. And dark round Lynden grewMisfortune's troubles; and foreboding fears,That rose like distant shadows nearer drewO'ercasting the calm evening of his years;Yet still amidst the gloom fair hope appears,A rainbow in the cloud. And, for a space,Till the horizon closes round of clears,Returns our tale the enchanted path to traceWhere youth's fond visions rise with fair but fleeting grace.Far up the dale, where Lynden's ruined towersO'erlooked the valley from the old oak wood,A lake blue gleaming from deep forest bowers,Spread its fair mirror to the landscape rude:Oft by the margin of that quiet flood,And through the groves and hoary ruins round,Young Arthur loved to roam in lonely mood;Or here, amid tradition's haunted ground,Long silent hours to lie in mystic musings drowned.Here Arthur loved to roam—a dreaming boy—Erewhile romantic reveries to frame,Or read adventurous tales with thrilling joy.Till his young breast throbbed high with thirst of fame;But with fair manhood's dawn a softer flame'Gan mingle with his martial musings high;And trembling wishes—which he feared to name,Yet oft betrayed in many a half-drawn sigh—Told that the hidden shaft deep in his heart did lie.And there were eyes that from long silken lashesWith stolen glance could spy his secret pain—Sweet hazel eyes, whose dewy light out-flashesLike joyous day-spring after summer rain;And she, the enchantress, loved the youth againWith maiden's first affection, fond and true,—Ah! youthful love is like the tranquil main,Heaving 'neath smiling skies its bosom blue—Beautiful as a spirit—calm, but fearful too!

Our limits compel us to break off once more, which is a source of regret, especially when our path is strewn with such gems as these:—

A gentle star lights up their solitudeAnd lends fair hues to all created things;And dreams alone of beings pure and goodHover around their hearts with angel wings—Hearts, like sweet fountains sealed, where silent rapture springs.

Here is a beautiful apostrophe—

Oh Nature! by impassioned hearts aloneThy genuine charms are felt. The vulgar mindSees but the shadow of a power unknown;Thy loftier beauties beam not to the blindAnd sensual throng, to grovelling hopes resigned:But they whom high and holy thoughts inspireAdore thee, in celestial glory shrinedIn that diviner fane where Love's pure fireBurns bright, and Genius tunes his loud immortal Lyre!

The halcyon days at length draw to a close, and sorrows "in battalions" compel them to emigrate and bid

Farewell to the scenes they ne'er shall visit more.

The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the lovers of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination is with the following exquisite ballad:—

Our native land, our native vale,A long and last adieu!Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,And Cheviot mountains blue.Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,And streams renowned in song:Farewell, ye blithsome braes and meadsOur hearts have loved so long.Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,Where thyme and harebells grow;Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,O'erhung with birk and sloe.The battle-mound, the border-tower,That Scotia's annals tell:Thy martyr's grave, the lover's bower—To each—to all—farewell!Home of our hearts! our father's home!Land of the brave and free!The keel is flashing through the foamThat bears us far from thee.We seek a wild and distant shoreBeyond the Atlantic main:We leave thee to return no more,Nor view thy cliffs again.But may dishonour blight our fame,And quench our household fires,When we or ours forget thy name,Green island of our sires.Our native land—our native vale—A long, a last adieu!Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,And Scotland's mountains blue!

We have only space to add that the poetical pieces are very numerous, and those by Allan Cunningham, the Ettrick Shepherd, Delta, and William Kennedy, merit especial notice.

The elegant embossed binding is similar to that of last year, which we mentioned to our readers, and which we think an improvement on the silken array.

The Bijou

Though last in the field, (for it is scarcely published) the Bijou will doubtless occupy a different place in public favour. Its embellishments are selected with much judgment, and in literary merit, it equals either of its contemporaries. Its second title is an Annual of Literature and the Fine Arts, and from the choice of its illustrations, deservedly so. Thus, among the painters, who have furnished subjects for the engravers, we have Holbein, Claude, and Primaticcio; and two from Sir Thomas Lawrence. The engraving from Holbein, Sir Thomas More and his Family,—is a novelty in an Annual, and is beautifully executed by Ensom. It has all the quaintness of the great master, whose pictures may be called the mosaic of painting. The Autumnal Evening, engraved by Dean, after Claude, is not so successful; although it should be considered that little space is allowed for the exquisite effect of the original: still the execution might have been better. The Frontispiece, Lady Wallscourt, after Sir Thomas Lawrence is in part, a first-rate engraving; Young Lambton, after the same master, is of superior merit. The face is beautifully copied; and, by way of hint to the scrappers, this print will form a companion to the Mountain Daisy, from the Amulet for the present year. There are, too, some consecrated landscapes, dear to every classical tourist, and of, no common interest at home—as Clisson, the retreat of Heloise; Mont Blanc; and the Cascade of Tivoli—all of which are delightfully picturesque. The view of Mont Blanc is well managed.

In the prose compositions we notice some of intense interest, among which are the Stranger Patron and the Castle of Reinspadte—both of German origin. There is too, a faithful historiette of the Battle of Trafalgar, which, with the History of the Family of Sir Thomas More, will be read with peculiar attention. Our extracts from the poetical department are by Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon.

THE SLEEPERS

Oh! lightly, lightly tread!A holy thing is sleep.On the worn spirit shed,And eyes that wake to weep:A holy thing from heaven,A gracious dewy cloud,A covering mantle, givenThe weary to enshroud.Oh! lightly, lightly tread!Revere the pale still brow,The meekly drooping head,The long hair's willowy flow!Ye know not what ye do,That call the slumberer back,From the world unseen by you,Unto Life's dim faded track.Her soul is far away,In her childhood's land perchance,Where her young sisters play,Where shines her mother's glance.Some old sweet native soundHer spirit haply weaves;A harmony profoundOf woods with all their leaves:A murmur of the sea,A laughing tone of streams:—Long may her sojourn beIn the music-land of dreams!Each voice of love is there,Each gleam of beauty fled.Each lost one still more fair—Oh! lightly, lightly tread!

Miss Landon has contributed more to the "Bijou" than to any other Annual, and a piece from her distinguished pen will increase the value and variety of our columns.

THE FEAST OF LIFE

I bid thee to my mystic Feast,Each one thou lovest is gathered there;Yet put thou on a mourning robe,And bind the cypress in thy hair.The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;The board with faded flowers is spread:Shadows of beauty flit around,But beauty from each bloom has fled;And music echoes from the walls,But music with a dirge-like sound;And pale and silent are the guests,And every eye is on the ground.Here, take this cup, tho' dark it seem,And drink to human hopes and fears;'Tis from their native elementThe cup is filled—it is of tears.What! turnest thou with averted brow?Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;And askest for a purple robe,Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.In vain, the veil has left thine eyes,Or such these would have seemed to thee;Before thee is the Feast of Life,But life in its reality!

We should not, however, pass over in silence a poem, of the antique school, entitled the Holy Vengeance for the Martyrdom of George Wishart, the merits of which are of a high order. Indeed, this piece, and the admirable composition of the History of Sir Thomas More and his Family, with the Holbein print, distinguish the Bijou from all other publications of its class, and are characteristic of the good taste of Mr. Pickering, the proprietor. Altogether, the Bijou for 1829 is very superior to the last volume, and, to our taste, it is one of the most attractive of the Christmas presents.