قراءة كتاب The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction Volume 12, No. 344 (Supplementary Issue)
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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction Volume 12, No. 344 (Supplementary Issue)
upon her aching breast.
And when the victor, Death, shall come to deal the welcome blow,
He will not find one rose to swell the wreath that decks his brow:
For oh! her cheek is blanch'd by grief which time may not assuage,—
Thus early Beauty sheds her bloom on the wintry breast of Age.
Our commendation of the "Keepsake" might be extended much further, were we to consult our inclination to do justice to its high character. With so lavish an expenditure and such an array of talent as we have shown it to contain, to wonder at its success,
Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.
We congratulate the proprietors on their prospects of remuneration, for the attractions of their publication are irresistible. It is altogether a splendid enterprise, and we doubt not the reward will be more than proportionate to the expectation it has raised—both in the proprietors and their patrons—the public.
The Anniversary,
Edited by Allan Cunningham.
Perhaps we are getting too panegyrical, for panegyric savours of the poppy; but we must not flinch from our duty.
Allan Cunningham—there is poetry in the name, written or sung—and high-wrought poetry too, in nearly every production to which that name is attached—and among these "The Anniversary for 1829." All the departments of this work too, (as in the "Keepsake") are unique. Mr. Sharpe, the proprietor, is a man of refined taste, his Editor and his contributors are men of first-rate genius, the Painters and Engravers are of the first rank, and the volume is printed at Mr. Whittingham's Chiswick-press. Excellence must always be the result of such a combination of talent, and so it proves in the Anniversary. As might have been expected from the talent of its editor, the volume is superior in its poetical attractions—both in number and quality.
By way of variety, we begin with the poetry. First is a stirring little ballad, the Warrior, by the editor; then, a humorous epistle from Robert Southey, Esq. to Allan Cunningham, in which the laureat deals forth his ire on the "misresemblances and villanous visages" which have been published as his portrait.1 Next is a gem of another water, Edderline's Dream, by Professor Wilson, the supposed editor of "Blackwood's Magazine." This is throughout a very beautiful composition, but we must content ourselves with the following extract:—
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 light
That 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 shocks
Stuns the green foundation rocks,
Through the green abyss that mocks his eye,
Oft hath the eerie watchman sent
A shuddering look, a shivering sigh,
From the edge of the howling battlement!
"Therein is a lonesome room,
Undisturbed as some old tomb
That, built within a forest glen,
Far from feet of living men,
And sheltered by its black pine-trees
From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas,
Flings back its arched gateway tall,
At times to some great funeral!
Noiseless as a central cell
In the bosom of a mountain
Where 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 recline
O'er an arm more pure than snow,
Motionless beneath her head,—
And through her large fair eyelids shine
Shadowy 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 veil
Is o'er the sleeper! now a pale
Uncertain beauty glimmers faint,
And now the calm face of the saint
With 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 aisle
Vaulted the castle cliffs below,
To nothing mouldered, one and all,
Ages long ago!
"From her pillow, as if driven
By an unseen demon's hand
Disturbing the repose of heaven,
Hath fallen her head! The long black hair
From the fillet's silken band
In 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 brings
Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings;
Or, haply, to all eyes unknown,
Is borne away without a groan,
On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries
Of birds that pierce the sunny skies
With seaward dash, or in calm bands
Parading o'er the silvery sands,
Or mid the lovely flush of shells,
Pausing to burnish crest or wing.
No fading footmark see that tells
Of that poor unremembered thing!
"O dreadful is the world of dreams,
When all that world a chaos seems
Of 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 go
Along 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 deep
And wild can only be in sleep,
And that some overpowering scream
Will 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 know
The meanings on the face of woe,
Assured that no mock shower is shed
Of tears upon the real dead,
Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss,
When bending o'er the death-like cheek
Of 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