R430225A. Dramatic Lyrics.
The Atlas, 25 February 1843, p. 122.
Addendum to The Brownings’ Correspondence, vol. 6.
Bells and Pomegranates!—most musical, most sweet. The author entitles these poems Dramatic Lyrics; and they may be said, at least metaphysically, to sustain the appellation. If Mr. Browning is not the founder of a school of poetry of his own, he aims at originality. No one can read his effusions without this conviction. He is a bold and untrammelled thinker, and has more of the German cast of thought about him than any of his living poetical contemporaries. We think, however, that he too frequently sacrifices the harmony of language to what he would, perhaps, term the harmony of feeling. Beauty and power are not descendant attributes. Vigour and grace form the characteristics of “the Apollo;” and the ornaments of the Parthenon did not detract from its solidity. On this account his poetry will, in a certain sense, never become popular. He is, however, one of those who can be content with that praise which is, perhaps, the most imperishable—the praise which superior minds ungrudgingly bestow. And that this is reward sufficient, the history of our greatest epic poet truly exemplifies.
The least attractive part of these lyrics are the opening ones, entitled, “Cavalier Tunes.” They are an exhibition of the worst feelings, of the worst class, in the author’s worst manner:—
King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?
King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here’s, in Hell’s despite now,
King Charles!
To whom used my bay George quaff else,
By the old fools’s side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
While Noll’s damned trooper’s shot him?
(Cho.) King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?
King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here’s, in Hell’s despite now,
King Charles!
We do not think that such is the legitimate field for poetry. The ethical philosopher can treat of morals, and show the debasing nature of vice, without exposing the loathsomeness of the crypt, or using the language of the stews; much more the true poet, who is the interpreter of Nature, and the refiner of her least ethereal passions.
“Italy” and “France” are poetical and characteristic. “The Camp” is worthy of the author of Paracelsus. It is a magnificent drama, not in five acts, but in five verses:—
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoléon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused “My plans
“That soar, to earth may fall
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,”
Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse’s mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect—
(So tight he kept his lips compressed
Scarce any blood came thro’)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace
We’ve got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal’s in the market-place,
And you’ll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart’s desire,
Perched him!” The Chief’s eyes [sic] flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The Chief’s eyes [sic] flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother eagle’s eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes:
“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his soldier’s pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
“I’m killed, Sire!” And, his Chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
“Artemis Prologuizes” is a masterly production; when contrasted with the other lyrics, it reminds us of the fragment of some Grecian temple, showing its graceful proportions in an edifice where we find predominating the fantastic Gothic and the luxuriant Arabesque. It would be doing injustice to the author to quote from such a poem, and we are therefore compelled, as we cannot give the whole, to omit quotation.
“The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” though a child’s story, will delight those of maturest age. The town is overrun with rats, and the piper, who mysteriously makes his appearance on the occasion, promises to expel them for a thousand guilders. He does so. At the sound of his magical pipe they troop after him, and all, save one, perish in the Weser. He then asks his reward. The corporation laugh at his just demand. Hark to the mayor:—
How? cried the Mayor, d’ye think I’ll brook
Being worse treated than a cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!
But behold what ensues,—
Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane:
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave th’ enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seem’d like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard, when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The rosy troop follow him to the tall mountain’s side, which opens, receives them, and closes over them for ever. This pithy moral ends the tale:—
So, Willy, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men—especially pipers:
And, whether they rid us from rats or mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
In short, Bells and Pomegranates, with one or two exceptions, is a casket of poetical gems, pure and sparkling.
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. III. Dramatic Lyrics (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1842.
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