Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 328, February, 1843

THE WORDS OF BELIEF

Three Words will I name thee—around and about, From the lip to the lip, full of meaning, they flee; But they had not their birth in the being without, And the heart, not the lip, must their oracle be! And all worth in the man shall for ever be o'er When in those Three Words he believes no more. Man is made FREE!—Man, by birthright, is free, Though the tyrant may deem him but born for his tool. Whatever the shout of the rabble may be— Whatever the ranting misuse of the fool— Still fear not the Slave, when he breaks from his chain, For the Man made a Freeman grows safe in his gain. And VIRTUE is more than a shade or a sound, And Man may her voice, in this being, obey; And though ever he slip on the stony ground, Yet ever again to the godlike way. Though her wisdom our wisdom may not perceive, Yet the childlike spirit can still believe. And a GOD there is!—over Space, over Time, While the Human Will rocks, like a reed, to and fro, Lives the Will of the Holy—A Purpose Sublime, A Thought woven over creation below; Changing and shifting the All we inherit, But changeless through all One Immutable Spirit! Hold fast the Three Words of Belief—though about From the lip to the lip, full of meaning they flee; Yet they take not their birth from the being without— But a voice from within must their oracle be; And never all worth in the Man can be o'er, Till in those Three Words he believes no more.

THE MIGHT OF SONG

A rain-flood from the mountain-riven, It leaps, in thunder, forth to Day, Before its rush the crags are driven— The oaks uprooted, whirl'd away— Aw'd, yet in awe all wildly glad'ning, The startled wanderer halts below; He hears the rock-born waters mad'ning, Nor wits the source from whence they go,— So, from their high, mysterious Founts along, Stream on the silenc'd world the Waves of Song! Knit with the threads of life, for ever, By those dread Powers that weave the woof,— Whose art the singer's spell can sever? Whose breast has mail to music proof? Lo, to the Bard, a wand of wonder The Herald8 of the Gods has given: He sinks the soul the death-realm under, Or lifts it breathless up to heaven— Half sport, half earnest, rocking its devotion Upon the tremulous ladder of emotion. As, when the halls of Mirth are crowded, Portentous, on the wanton scene— Some Fate, before from wisdom shrouded, Awakes and awes the souls of Men— Before that Stranger from ANOTHER, Behold how THIS world's great ones bow— Mean joys their idle clamour smother, The mask is vanish'd from the brow— And from Truth's sudden, solemn flag unfurl'd, Fly all the craven Falsehoods of the World! So, rapt from every care and folly, When spreads abroad the lofty lay, The Human kindles to the Holy, And into Spirit soars the Clay! One with the Gods the Bard: before him All things unclean and earthly fly— Hush'd are all meaner powers, and o'er him The dark fate swoops unharming by; And while the Soother's magic measures flow, Smooth'd every wrinkle on the brows of Woe! Even as a child that, after pining For the sweet absent mother—hears Her voice—and, round her neck entwining Young arms, vents all his soul in tears;— So, by harsh custom far estranged, Along the glad and guileless track, To childhood's happy home, unchanged, The swift song wafts the wanderer back— Snatch'd from the coldness of unloving Art To Nature's mother arms—to Nature's glowing heart!

HONOUR TO WOMAN

Honour to Woman! To her it is given To garden the earth with the roses of Heaven! All blessed, she linketh the Loves in their choir— In the veil of the Graces her beauty concealing, She tends on each altar that's hallow'd to Feeling, And keeps ever-living the fire! From the bounds of Truth careering, Man's strong spirit wildly sweeps, With each hasty impulse veering, Down to Passion's troubled deeps. And his heart, contented never, Greeds to grapple with the Far, Chasing his own dream for ever, On through many a distant Star! But Woman with looks that can charm and enchain, Lureth back at her beck the wild truant again, By the spell of her presence beguil'd— In the home of the Mother her modest abode, And modest the manners by Nature bestow'd On Nature's most exquisite child! Bruised and worn, but fiercely breasting, Foe to foe, the angry strife; Man the Wild One, never resting, Roams along the troubled life; What he planneth, still pursuing; Vainly as the Hydra bleeds, Crest the sever'd crest renewing— Wish to wither'd wish succeeds. But Woman at peace with all being, reposes, And seeks from the Moment to gather the roses— Whose sweets to her culture belong. Ah! richer than he, though his soul reigneth o'er The mighty dominion of Genius and Lore, And the infinite Circle of Song. Strong, and proud, and self-depending, Man's cold bosom beats alone; Heart with heart divinely blending, In the love that Gods have known, Souls' sweet interchange of feeling, Melting tears—he never knows, Each hard sense the hard one steeling, Arms against a world of foes. Alive, as the wind-harp, how lightly soever If woo'd by the Zephyr, to music will quiver, Is Woman to Hope and to Fear; Ah, tender one! still at the shadow of grieving, How quiver the chords—how thy bosom is heaving— How trembles thy glance through the tear! Man's dominion, war and labour; Might to right the Statute gave; Laws are in the Scythian's sabre; Where the Mede reign'd—see the Slave! Peace and Meekness grimly routing, Prowls the War-lust, rude and wild; Eris rages, hoarsely shouting, Where the vanish'd Graces smil'd. But Woman, the Soft One, persuasively prayeth— Of the Senses she charmeth, the sceptre she swayeth; She lulls, as she looks from above, The Discord whose Hell for its victims is gaping, And blending awhile the for-ever escaping, Whispers Hate to the Image of Love!

THE FIGHT WITH THE DRAGON

Who comes?—why rushes fast and loud, Through lane and street the hurtling crowd, Is Rhodes on fire?—Hurrah!—along Faster and fast storms the throng! High towers a shape in knightly garb— Behold the Rider and the Barb! Behind is dragg'd a wondrous load; Beneath what monster groans the road? The horrid jaws—the Crocodile, The shape the mightier Dragon, shows— From Man to Monster all the while— The alternate wonder glancing goes. Shout thousands, with a single voice, "Behold the Dragon, and rejoice, Safe roves the herd, and safe the swain! Lo!—there the Slayer—here the Slain! Full many a breast, a gallant life, Has waged against the ghastly strife, And ne'er return'd to mortal sight— Hurrah, then, for the Hero Knight!" So to the Cloister, where the vow'd And peerless Brethren of St John In conclave sit—that sea-like crowd, Wave upon wave, goes thundering on. High o'er the rest, the chief is seen— There wends the Knight with modest mien; Pours through the galleries raised for all Above that Hero-council Hall, The crowd—And thus the Victor One:— "Prince—the knight's duty I have done. The Dragon that devour'd the land Lies slain beneath thy servant's hand; Free, o'er the pasture, rove the flocks— And free the idler's steps may stray— And freely o'er the lonely rocks, The holier pilgrim wends his way!" A lofty look the Master gave, "Certes," he said; "thy deed is brave; Dread was the danger, dread the fight— Bold deeds bring fame to vulgar knight; But say, what sways with holier laws The knight who sees in Christ his cause, And wears the cross?"—Then every cheek Grew pale to hear the Master speak; But nobler was the blush that spread His face—the Victor's of the day— As bending lowly—"Prince," he said; "His noblest duty—TO OBEY!" "And yet that duty, son," replied The chief, "methinks thou hast denied; And dared thy sacred sword to wield For fame in a forbidden field." "Master, thy judgment, howsoe'er It lean, till all is told, forbear— Thy law in spirit and in will, I had no thought but to fulfil. Not rash, as some, did I depart A Christian's blood in vain to shed; But hoped by skill, and strove by art, To make my life avenge the dead. "Five of our Order, in renown The war-gems of our saintly crown, The martyr's glory bought with life; 'Twas then thy law forbade the strife. Yet in my heart there gnaw'd, like fire, Proud sorrow, fed with stern desire: In the still visions of the night, Panting, I fought the fancied fight; And when the morrow glimmering came, With tales of ravage freshly done, The dream remember'd, turn'd to shame, That night should dare what day should shun. "And thus my fiery musings ran— 'What youth has learn'd should nerve the man; How lived the great in days of old, Whose Fame to time by bards is told— Who, heathens though they were, became As gods—upborne to heaven by fame? How proved they best the hero's worth? They chased the monster from the earth— They sought the lion in his den— They pierced the Cretan's deadly maze— Their noble blood gave humble men Their happy birthright—peaceful days. "'What! sacred, but against the horde Of Mahound, is the Christian's sword? All strife, save one, should he forbear? No! earth itself the Christian's care— From every ill and every harm, Man's shield should be the Christian's arm. Yet art o'er strength will oft prevail, And mind must aid where heart may fail!' Thus musing, oft I roam'd alone, Where wont the Hell-born Beast to lie; Till sudden light upon me shone, And on my hope broke victory! "Then, Prince, I sought thee with the prayer To breathe once more my native air; The license given—the ocean past— I reach'd the shores of home at last. Scarce hail'd the old beloved land, Than huge, beneath the artist's hand, To every hideous feature true, The Dragon's monster-model grew. The dwarf'd, deformed limbs upbore The lengthen'd body's ponderous load; The scales the impervious surface wore, Like links of burnish'd harness, glow'd. "Life-like, the huge neck seem'd to swell, And widely, as some porch to hell You might the horrent jaws survey, Griesly, and greeding for their prey. Grim fangs an added terror gave, Like crags that whiten through a cave. The very tongue a sword in seeming— The deep-sunk eyes in sparkles gleaming. Where the vast body ends, succeed The serpent spires around it roll'd— Woe—woe to rider, woe to steed, Whom coils as fearful e'er enfold! "All to the awful life was done— The very hue, so ghastly, won— The grey, dull tint:—the labour ceased, It stood—half reptile and half beast! And now began the mimic chase; Two dogs I sought, of noblest race, Fierce, nimble, fleet, and wont to scorn The wild bull's wrath and levell'd horn; These, docile to my cheering cry, I train'd to bound, and rend, and spring, Now round the Monster-shape to fly, Now to the Monster-shape to cling! "And where their gripe the best assails, The belly left unsheath'd in scales, I taught the dexterous hounds to hang And find the spot to fix the fang; Whilst I, with lance and mailèd garb, Launch'd on the beast mine Arab barb. From purest race that Arab came, And steeds, like men, are fired by fame. Beneath the spur he chafes to rage; Onwards we ride in full career— I seem, in truth, the war to wage— The monster reels beneath my spear! "Albeit, when first the destrier9 eyed The laidly thing, it swerved aside, Snorted and rear'd—and even they, The fierce hounds, shrank with startled bay; I ceased not, till, by custom bold, After three tedious moons were told, Both barb and hounds were train'd—nay, more, Fierce for the fight—then left the shore! Three days have fleeted since I prest (Return'd at length) this welcome soil, Nor once would lay my limbs to rest, Till wrought the glorious crowning toil. "For much it moved my soul to know The unslack'ning curse of that grim foe. Fresh rent, mens' bones lay bleach'd and bare Around the hell-worm's swampy lair; And pity nerved me into steel:— Advice?—I had a heart to feel, And strength to dare! So, to the deed.— I call'd my squires—bestrode my steed, And with my stalwart hounds, and by Lone secret paths, we gaily go Unseen—at least by human eye— Against a worse than human foe! "Thou know'st the sharp rock—steep and hoar?— The abyss?—the chapel glimmering o'er? Built by the Fearless Master's hand, The fane looks down on all the land. Humble and mean that house of prayer— Yet God hath shrined a wonder there:— Mother and Child, to whom of old The Three Kings knelt with gifts, behold! By three times thirty steps, the shrine The pilgrim gains—and faint, and dim, And dizzy with the height, divine Strength on the sudden springs to him! "Yawns wide within that holy steep A mighty cavern dark and deep— By blessed sunbeam never lit— Rank fœtid swamps engirdle it; And there by night, and there by day, Ever at watch, the fiend-worm lay, Holding the Hell of its abode Fast by the hallow'd House of God. And when the pilgrim gladly ween'd His feet had found the healing way, Forth from its ambush rush'd the fiend, And down to darkness dragg'd the prey. "With solemn soul, that solemn height I clomb, ere yet I sought the fight— Kneeling before the cross within, My heart, confessing, clear'd its sin. Then, as befits the Christian knight, I donn'd the spotless surplice white, And, by the altar, grasp'd the spear:— So down I strode with conscience clear— Bade my leal squires afar the deed, By death or conquest crown'd, await— Leapt lightly on my lithesome steed, And gave to God his soldier's fate! "Before me wide the marshes lay— Started the hounds with sudden bay— Aghast the swerving charger slanting Snorted—then stood abrupt and panting— For curling there, in coilèd fold, The Unutterable Beast behold! Lazily basking in the sun. Forth sprang the dogs. The fight's begun! But lo! the hounds in cowering fly Before the mighty poison-breath— A yell, most like the jackall's cry, Howl'd, mingling with that wind of death! "No halt—I gave one cheering sound; Lustily springs each dauntless hound— Swift as the dauntless hounds advance, Whirringly skirrs my stalwart lance— Whirringly skirrs; and from the scale Bounds, as a reed aslant the mail. Onward—but no!—the craven steed Shrinks from his lord in that dread need— Smitten and scared before that eye Of basilisk horror, and that blast Of death, it only seeks to fly— And half the mighty hope is past! "A moment, and to earth I leapt; Swift from its sheath the falchion swept; Swift on that rock-like mail it plied— The rock-like mail the sword defied: The monster lash'd its mighty coil— Down hurl'd—behold me on the soil! Behold the hell-jaws gaping wide— When lo! they bound—the flesh is found; Upon the scaleless parts they spring! Springs either hound;—the flesh is found— It roars; the blood-dogs cleave and cling! "No time to foil its fast'ning foes— Light, as it writhed, I sprang, and rose; The all-unguarded place explored, Up to the hilt I plunged the sword— Buried one instant in the blood— The next, upsprang the bubbling flood! The next, one Vastness spread the plain— Crush'd down—the victor with the slain; And all was dark—and on the ground My life, suspended, lost the sun, Till waking—lo my squires around— And the dead foe!—my tale is done." Then burst, as from a common breast, The eager laud so long supprest— A thousand voices, choral-blending, Up to the vaulted dome ascending— From groined roof and banner'd wall, Invisible echoes answering all— The very Brethren, grave and high, Forget their state, and join the cry. "With laurel wreaths his brows be crown'd, Let throng to throng his triumph tell; Hail him all Rhodes!"—the Master frown'd, And raised his hand—and silence fell. "Well," said that solemn voice, "thy hand From the wild-beast hath freed the land. An idol to the People be! A foe our Order frowns on thee! For in thy heart, superb and vain, A hell-worm laidlier than the slain, To discord which engenders death, Poisons each thought with baleful breath! That hell-worm is the stubborn Will— Oh! What were man and nations worth If each his own desire fulfil, And law be banish'd from the earth? "Valour the Heathen gives to story— Obedience is the Christian's glory; And on that soil our Saviour-God As the meek low-born mortal trod. We the Apostle-knights were sworn To laws thy daring laughs to scorn— Not fame, but duty to fulfil— Our noblest offering—man's wild will. Vain-glory doth thy soul betray— Begone—thy conquest is thy loss: No breast too haughty to obey, Is worthy of the Christian's cross!" From their cold awe the crowds awaken, As with some storm the halls are shaken; The noble brethren plead for grace— Mute stands the doom'd, with downward face; And mutely loosen'd from its band The badge, and kiss'd the Master's hand, And meekly turn'd him to depart: A moist eye follow'd, "To my heart Come back, my son!"—the Master cries: "Thy grace a harder fight obtains; When Valour risks the Christian's prize, Lo, how Humility regains!"

[In the ballad just presented to the reader, Schiller designed, as he wrote to Goethe, to depict the old Christian chivalry—half-knightly, half-monastic. The attempt is strikingly successful; and, even in so humble a translation, the unadorned simplicity and earnest vigour of a great poet, enamoured of his subject, may be sufficiently visible to a discerning critic. "The Fight of the Dragon" appears to us the most spirited and nervous of all Schiller's ballads, with the single exception of "The Diver;" and if its interest is less intense than that of the matchless "Diver," and its descriptions less poetically striking and effective, its interior meaning or philosophical conception is at once more profound and more elevated. The main distinction, indeed, between the ancient ballad and the modern, as revived and recreated by Goethe and Schiller, is, that the former is a simple narrative, and the latter a narrative which conveys some intellectual idea—some dim, but important truth. The one has but the good faith of the minstrel, the other the high wisdom of the poet. In "The Fight of the Dragon," is expressed the moral of that humility which consists in self-conquest—even merit may lead to vain-glory—and, after vanquishing the fiercest enemies without, Man has still to contend with his worst foe,—the pride or disobedience of his own heart. "Every one," as a recent and acute, but somewhat over-refining critic has remarked, "has more or less—his own 'fight with the Dragon,'—his own double victory (without and within) to achieve." The origin of this poem is to be found in the Annals of the Order of Malta—and the details may be seen in Vertot's History. The date assigned to the conquest of the Dragon is 1342. Helion de Villeneuve was the name of the Grand Master—that of the Knight, Dieu-Donné de Gozon. Thevenot declares, that the head of the monster, (to whatever species it really belonged,) or its effigies, was still placed over one of the gates of the city in his time.]

REYNOLDS'S DISCOURSES. PART II

Having shown that the standard of Taste is in the Truth of Nature, and that this truth is in the mind, Sir Joshua, in the Eighth Discourse, proceeds to a further development of the principles of art. These principles, whether poetry or painting, have their foundation in the mind; which by its sensitive faculties and intellectual requirements, remodels all that it receives from the external world, vivifying and characterizing all with itself, and thus bringing forth into light the more beautiful but latent creations of nature. The "activity and restlessness" of the mind seek satisfaction from curiosity, novelty, variety, and contrast. Curiosity, "the anxiety for the future, the keeping the event suspended," he considers to be exclusively the province of poetry, and that "the painter's art is more confined, and has nothing that corresponds with, or perhaps is equivalent to, this power and advantage of leading the mind on, till attention is totally engaged. What is done by painting must be done at one blow; curiosity has received at once all the satisfaction it can have." Novelty, variety, and contrast, however, belong to the painter. That poetry has this power, and operates by more extensively raising our curiosity, cannot be denied; but we hesitate in altogether excluding this power from painting. A momentary action may be so represented, as to elicit a desire for, and even an intimation of its event. It is true that curiosity cannot be satisfied, but it works and conjectures; and we suspect there is something of it in most good pictures. Take such a subject as the "Judgment of Solomon:" is not the "event suspended," and a breathless anxiety portrayed in the characters, and freely acknowledged by the sympathy of the spectator? Is there no mark of this "curiosity" in the "Cartoon of Pisa?" The trumpet has sounded, the soldiers are some half-dressed, some out of the water, others bathing; one is anxiously looking for the rising of his companion, who has just plunged in, and we see but his hands above the water; the very range of rocks, behind which the danger is shown to come, tends to excite our curiosity; we form conjectures of the enemy, their number, nearness of approach, and from among the manly warriors before us form episodes of heroism in the great intimated epic: and have we not seen pictures by Rembrandt, where "curiosity" delights to search unsatisfied and unsatiated into the mysteries of colour and chiaro-scuro, receding further as we look into an atmosphere pregnant with all uncertain things? We think we have not mistaken the President's meaning. Mr Burnet appears to agree with us: though he makes no remark upon the power of raising curiosity, yet it surely is raised in the very picture to which we presume he alludes, Raffaelle's "Death of Ananias;" the event, in Sapphira, is intimated and suspended. "Though," says Mr Burnet, "the painter has but one page to represent his story, he generally chooses that part which combines the most illustrative incidents with the most effective denouement of the event. In Raffaelle we often find not only those circumstances which precede it, but its effects upon the personages introduced after the catastrophe."