E410200A. The Seraphim.
The Arcturus, February 1841, pp. 171–176.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 5, 388–389.
In spite of the various machinery which is kept in agitation by authors and publishers, to invent and circulate literary reputation, it still not unfrequently happens that some very admirable authors are a long time in finding their way to the public. A good book, like a modest man of worth, is often overlooked for awhile in the crowd. Criticism cannot either always aid public justice; it cannot forestall the practised judgment or cultivated taste, which must exist in the mass of readers before the author can be appreciated. Originality, the element of true success, is at first an obstacle to favor, though novelty, (generally a very different claimant,) often gains the day. Excellence of the highest order cannot indeed be hid from the world, but it not seldom happens that talent is overlooked and neglected till by some influence or other it suddenly becomes fashionable. The literary tastes of each age involve something of fashion even among critics. Reputation, with writers of a limited degree of merit, is often a matter of accident, depending upon a particular connection with some reigning author, a favorable review, a temporary interest by which the subject is of importance, the support of a clique, or the notoriety of excellence in some other department. Various are the tenures by which the middle classes among authors hold their rank. A few great names rule the world, while the rest are subject to caprice and fortune, illustrations of the vanity of fame, and the folly of authorship.
By what accident the poems of Miss Barrett have been so long neglected by American readers, we do not stop to inquire. It is not the fashion now with booksellers to republish poetry, though the taste for it, if we may judge from some recent illustrations, appears to be on the increase. A cause of popular neglect in the present instance may lie nearer home, and be attributable to the fair authoress her- [p. 172→] self. The first impression on opening the volume at the long poem of the Seraphim, is a sense of mysticism and obscurity in a dim philosophizing, which an experienced reader is apt to distrust. We are not at home in speculating on the minds of angels; but as we proceed in the book the eye lights upon passages of earthly description, and sentiments of earthly actors, which claim for themselves a place in our hearts. No cultivated reader can lay down the volume without a consciousness of love and holy thought, the parting gifts always borne away from the company of true poets.
One of the chief poems in the collection is entitled The Poet’s Vow. It is written to teach the need of sympathy to the human heart, without which it “languishes, grows dim, and dies;”* that though
Thou mayest not smile like other men,
Yet like them thou must weep.
It is picturesque in its style, and has stanzas which partake a fine legendary spirit, and would do no discredit to the best days of the ballad. The Poet’s Vow is to Solitude, to the retirement of his high vocation in the enjoyment of an ideal philosophical revery, which he mistakes for happiness, and the true means of his calling. The introduction of the poet has the fastidiousness and inventive grace of Keats, and seems written to illustrate some antique painting of monk or scholar. After an artist-like opening of the poem at even, with its silent call to the sympathies with those we love, the glare of noonday makes us often forget we are called away to the poet.
A poet sate that eventide
Within his hall alone,
As silent as its ancient lords
In their coffined place of stone;
When the bat hath shrunk from the praying monk—
And the praying monk is gone.
In his thoughts of man and life he would not be included in the common curse; he would not barter or sell or vex the soul with gain, or the countenances of bad men, so he foreswore all human society, to rest unpolluted, undisturbed in [p. 173→] his own proud heart. But mark the falsehood of his self-taught philosophy,—the first step to his fancied innocence of living is over the graves of two human hearts; he must first trample upon friend and lover. The touching address of Rosalind, whom he had caused to love, moves him not, nor the manly expostulation of his friend. While the latter thought to win him back to sound sense and feeling, by talking of the humanity of the Saviour on earth, he listened not, but all the while, (how false is the human heart!) he thought of celestial rivers and “white cold palms” of immortals of his own device. How lived the poet in his solitude? Let the poetess tell, for her knowledge is sound, and her imagination vivid enough to tell us the truth—
He dwelt alone, and sun and moon,
Perpetual witness made
Of his repented humanness—
Until they seemed to fade.
His face did so; for he did grow
Of his own soul afraid.
For years he bore that solitude, “the pressure of the infinite upon his finite soul;” but years could not dry up the fount of sympathy in the heart, and he looked out upon the world a sorrowful man—
The poet at his lattice sate,
And downward looked he—
Three Christians passed by to prayers,
With mute ones in their ee.
Each turned above a face of love,
And called him to the far chapelle
With voice more tuneful than its bell—
But still they wended three!
There passed by a bridal pomp,
A bridegroom and his dame—
She speaketh low for happiness,
She blusheth red for shame—
But never a tone of benison
From out the lattice came!
A little child with inward song,
No louder noise to dare,
Stood near the wall to see at play
The lizards green and rare—
Unblessed the while for his childish smile
Which cometh unaware! [p. 174→]
But where was Rosalind all the while? Where could she be to the true unselfish sight of poetry but sad, grieved, heartbroken in her solitude. The worldly man may have looked for her elsewhere in reckless gaiety, surrounded by new lovers, but it is not the manners of the world the poet is tracing, but the history of the heart, and most naturally do we find Rosalind heartbroken.
The loving nurse leant over her,
As white she lay beneath—
The old eyes searching—dim with life—
The young ones dim with death,—
To read their look, if sound forsook
The trying, trembling breath.
When all this feeble breath is done,
And I on bier am laid,
My tresses smoothed for never a feast,
My body in shroud arrayed—
Uplift each palm in a saintly calm,
As if that still I prayed.
By the last wish of Rosalind she was gently carried on her bier by the side of the kirk-yard, the brook, the hill, and forest, to the door of the poet’s ruined hall. At night came the Revenge—need we tell the rest?
For when they came at dawn of day
To lift the lady’s corpse away,
Her bier was holding twain.
We have dwelt long upon this poem, not only for the sake of the choice poetry, but for the sound philosophical lesson it inculcates. Nature will be revenged on the man who deserts his fellows. The world is harsh to the desires of the youth who has built up for himself, as youth ought, a world of his own, but let him not shun the manly strife of the real world. If the desertion be done in pride, pride will sting the soul by its sharp goadings to despair; if the world be abandoned to avoid its cares in a spirit of selfishness, life without motive shall be without honor. It is too much the fashion with a new sect of writers to overestimate the benefit of solitude, retirement, and silence. Verily, there is little chance of the quiet sentences of wisdom dropping like the eloquent words of Nestor upon the ear softer than snowflakes in the babble of the exchange, or the noisy political [p. 175→] meeting. These are the extremes. Yet in the midst of action, in the pauses of business, out of the excitement of passion, the very heart of conflict comes the language of truth and eloquence. Thinking, by itself, if we can imagine any such process, would be but “an idle waste of thought.” Resting on the “motions of the incessant soul,”** we would soon pause in the charmed circle, not of philosophy, but of madness. Wisdom has marked out the proportion of thought and action in appointing six days of labor and one sabbath of rest.
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*Wordsworth.
**Emerson.
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If the reader desire to hear more of the true poetry of our authoress, let him read the poems entitled Sounds, Earth and her Praises, the Sleep, the Student, Cowper’s Grave. The following is of surpassing beauty, from the poem of The Seaside Walk.
We walked by the sea,
After a day which perished silently
Of its own glory—like the Princess weird,
Who, combating the Genius, scorched and seared,
Uttered with burning breath, “Ho! victory!”
And sank adown, an heap of ashes pale.
So runs the Arab tale!
The sky above us showed
An universal and unmoving cloud,
Athwart the which, yon cliffs did let us see
Only the outline of their majesty;
As master-minds, when gazed at by the crowd!
And, shining with a gloominess, the water
Swang as the moon had taught her.
Nor moon, nor stars were out.
They did not dare to tread so soon about,
Though trembling, in the footsteps of the sun.
The light was neither night’s nor day’s, but one
Which, life-like, had a beauty in its doubt;
And silence’s impassioned breathings round
Seemed wandering into sound!
These stanzas are the very breath of poetry, the unconscious whisperings of the Muse.
I may sing; but minstrel’s singing
Ever ceaseth with his playing.
I may smile; but time is bringing
Thoughts for smiles to wear away in. [p. 176→]
I may view thee, mutely loving;
But shall view thee so in dying!
I may sigh; but life’s removing,
And with breathing endeth sighing!
Be it so!
When no song of mine comes near thee,
Will its memory fail to soften?
When no smile of mine can cheer thee,
Will thy smile be used as often?
When my looks the darkness boundeth,
Will thine own be lighted after?
When my sigh no longer soundeth,
Wilt thou list another’s laughter?
Be it so!
Reviewed:
The Seraphim, and Other Poems (EBB), London: Saunders & Otley, 1838.
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