Chapter II: Part 2

Then wind of the dark blue mountains,
Still sweep these trembling strings
Into sweet strains of mournfulness,
With the flutter of thy wings.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. I.

"Every modification of a society, at all lettered, works out for itself a correspondent literature, bearing the stamp of its character and exhibiting all its peculiarities."[1]

[Footnote 1: Sir J. Mackintosh's History of England, vol. I.]

It is thus that we see among the simple progenitors of a now polished race, a simplicity of literature in extreme accordance with their rude and unsophisticated manners. Yet when I speak of a rude literature, I am not to be understood as implying want of merit. On the contrary, the unpruned freedom of thought and unextinguished fire of feeling, so essential to true poetry, are chiefly to be found among a people martial and but little cultivated. Nor is this all; we often discover a beautiful tenderness, breathing of the primeval simplicity in which it has been nurtured. The dangers and hardships of severe employment, were sometimes forgotten in intervals of rest, and at such times, love ditties were made and sung. All natural beauties--the mountain--the waters of the valley--the dingle--the mossy wood, peopled by its vagabond essences and strange spirits--were inexhaustible food for poetry. This love of gentleness was the stronger for its contrast with the tone of feeling which preceded it. There are many instances of "the soft" to be found amongst the mutilated scraps and scattered records remaining to us from the numerous races usually called Barbarians. Montaigne somewhere quotes an original Caribbean song, which he pronounces worthy of Anacreon:

"Oh, snake stay; stay, O snake, that my sister may draw from the pattern of thy painted skin, the fashion and work of a rich riband which I mean to present to my mistress: so may thy beauty and thy disposition be preferred to those of all other serpents. Oh, snake stay!"

If this had been the song of a Peruvian or a Chilian, it would have been less singular. As it is, it was probably sung by a savage Carib in a moment of that rest, of which I have spoken as the season for "love ditties."

The curious student who searches into the authorities of our historians, will find that they are chiefly made up of legends imbodied in the songs of coeval bards and minstrels. This was the source of historical knowledge to the Danish writers, more than to those of any other country; indeed the scald was as well a chronicler as a singer. Nor is this historical foundation to be despised. Those who sung were most frequently eye witnesses of the occurrences celebrated in their songs. Men in those early ages had not so thoroughly learned the art of misrepresentation. Manly openness was a virtue: cunning was scarcely known in action or narration: or, if known, despised. Consequently we find that in many or all cases where other proofs are to be had, the legends of the bards are substantiated.--The chief source of our information with regard to the Saxon rule in the island of Great Britain, is the Saxon Chronicle--a kind of journal or annual, kept by the monks of early ages. This extends considerably beyond the era of the conquest, and is often spun into verse. Indeed the first instance of the use of rhyme in the Saxon tongue, is to be found in this chronicle--I will not however anticipate my subject by quoting the lines in this place.

The materials with which English antiquaries build up their historical creeds, are so slender, that the very existence of the minstrel, as distinct from the poet, prior to William's coming, has been matter of controversy.--After close examination, I am inclined to side with those who maintain that minstrelsey--like the feudal system--was no more than improved by the Normans; that it had accompanied the Saxons from Germany.

We are told that, Colgrin, a Saxon prince, gained access to his brother Baldulph, while the latter defended York against Arthur and his Britons, by disguising himself as a harper.[2] Likewise that the great Alfred stole forth in the same disguise from the Isle of Athelney--whither Guthrun the Dane had driven him--and that in such plight he entered the enemy's quarters unhindered. Another story of the same nature is told us of Anlaff, a Danish chief, who explored the camp of king Athelstane.[3] The learned bishop of Dromore, after quoting these several stories at full length, remarks: "Now if the Saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of their own, Alfred's assuming so new and unusual a character would have excited suspicions among the Danes. On the other hand, if it had not been customary with the Saxons to shew favor and respect to the Danish scalds, Anlaff would not have ventured himself among them, especially on the eve of a battle. From the uniform procedure then of both these kings, we may fairly conclude that the same mode of entertainment prevailed among both people, and that the minstrel was a privileged character with each."

[Footnote 2: Geoffrey of Monmouth.]

[Footnote 3: Vide Rapin.]

This proves, to me, that a plant from the same root whence sprung the Danish scald, grew and flourished in England. This idea is farther strengthened by the fact that Saxons and Danes were of one and the same origin--both swarms from the same northern hive--and that the scald retained by the Danes[4] was an important personage among the Teutonic tribes; and nothing can be more natural than for men to recur to the customs and usages of their parent-land.

[Footnote 4: Sir W. Temple.]

It seems therefore that minstrels constituted a privileged race among the Saxons. Yet poetry was not meanwhile confined to their vocal performances. Alfred himself was the author of several written pieces of considerable merit. Among other ballads, one descriptive of the battle of Brunnenburgh, is still extant. This battle--fought between Athelstane and a confederacy of Danes and rebel Britons--was well drawn in the original, and has been translated by a school boy at Eton with unrivalled beauty and truth.[5]

[Footnote 5: Frere.]

Song was used likewise on the field of battle. Many instances of this are on record, but I shall select no more than one for the sake of proof.

When Harold the last Saxon king, drew up his army against the combined forces of Tostigg--his rebel brother--and Harold Hardrada, the Norwegian king, Tostigg rode out upon a hillock, and _after the fashion of the day_, began a war-chaunt. While thus engaged, a herald came from Harold, his brother, greeting him, and offering reconciliation. "The dukedom of Northumberland shall be given thee," said the herald. "And what reward has he for my friend and ally?" replied the haughty rebel. "Seven feet of English ground, or as men call him a giant, perhaps eight." And the herald finding his attempt at reconciliation futile, put spurs to his horse. Tostigg rode backward and forward, tossing his bare sword into the air and catching it as it fell. Meanwhile his brother's archers came within bow-shot, and their arrows whistled from the string. Tostigg fought beside his ally, in a blue tunic and shining helmet. He was yet chanting to his army, when a shaft pierced his throat and ended song and life together.

Thus do we see that poetry existed in three shapes; in the songs of a privileged order, called by the various names of _joculator_, _minstrel_, &c. &c.; in writing; and in the martial chaunts of heroes "bowne for battelle."--And what were the subjects of these several species of poetry? The last explains itself. The first two were probably on martial topics; so we may infer at least from the specimens which have reached us, and from the situation of England, even for centuries after its union under Egbert. Swept by the repeated inroads of the Danes--harassed and ground by the never-ending feuds of the great nobles, "ye might (in the strong words of an old historian,) as well plough the sea."--Thus with warlike customs--the last half of Sir J. Mackintosh's remark, quoted in the beginning of this paper, being at all times a consequent on the first--literature grew up in more harsh strength than graceful beauty. Society was little better than a confederacy for joint defence against watchful foes. The air was redolent of strife and contention. The "clash of armor and the rush of multitudes," mingling _minaci murmure cornuum_, were imitated on the harp's string, and enthusiastic damsels sung the deeds of their lovers, or so far forgot the more tender affection which would prefer the life of its object, to that object's death and after-honor, as to mingle the _io triumphe_ with the burial song; thus giving way to the fierce joy, which weakness, when excited by thoughts of great deeds denied itself, conjures up--the _gaudia certaminis_, ever strongest in the weakest. I have already remarked, that "during intervals of rest, love ditties were sung." We have remnants enough to know that the Saxon poets were not forgetful of all gentler feeling, though these too were most often mingled with alloy. There were not wanting those willing and eager to embalm the names of the beautiful and great. There were not wanting bards to sing of the _loves_ of these.

Elgiva, who drew her royal lover from the board where his nobles, and the sage Dunstan, had met to do him honor. Editha, the lady of the swan-neck, who recognised the body of Harold though mangled and disfigured wofully "for that her eyes were strong with love." These have had their good qualities and misfortunes immortalized by men, who, in the pauses of the bitterest strife, turned to admire beauty and unyielding affection, and to lament the evils brought upon innocent heads.

They sung too of Elfrida, who stabbed young Alfred while feasting in Corfe-castle--a deed "than which no worse had been committed among the people of the Angles, since they first came to the land of Britain." And in this we perceive the alloy, as in their praise of the masculine Ethelflida, "the lady of Mercia," daughter of the great Alfred.

I have barely glanced over the Saxon literature from the middle of the fifth century, to that of the eleventh, without entering into a careful and accurate detail of the changes which must have occurred, and which probably by a closer examination than I have thought needful, might be spread open. One great change occurred about the end of the eighth century. Egbert--Bretwalda, or king of Wessex, one of the seven principalities forming the Heptarchy--long lived at the court of Charlemagne, then the most polished court west of Italy. He united the seven petty kingdoms into one, and as their single head, had an opportunity of using effectually the information gathered abroad.

Several additions were made to this, but the one most worthy notice, was more than two centuries after. Edward the confessor, passed twenty-seven years, from boyhood to middle age, at the court of Rouen; indeed (according to Ingulphus,)

"Paene in Gallicam transierat."

He therefore added to the polish, introduced by his predecessor, though at so late an hour that the change for the better was scarcely perceptible, before it merged in the more important one, introduced by the Norman invasion.

I now proceed to an examination of poetry through ages of comparative light. Although from the gradual intercourse between the two nations prior to their amalgamation, no alteration of feeling or manners had taken place, extensive enough to mark the "conquest" as a grand and important era in the history of national customs, still many and subtle changes were produced, bearing in no small degree upon the subject before us.

The poetry of the Saxons was without rhyme, and the author of "an essay on Chaucer," says, "without metre." The learned antiquary must have attached a meaning to the word _metre_, wholly at variance with that now and usually received. Metre (from the Greek [Greek: metron] and Latin _metrum_) has several meanings, but scarcely distinct ones: all may be included in that of 'an harmonious disposition of words.' It is not enough to say that it differed from prose in being the language of passion. The general rules by which we judge poetry, are immutable, and equally applicable to that of Greeks, Saxons, and modern English. Dr. Blair and his authorities, define poetry to be "the language of passion metrically arranged," (I quote from memory) and supported so ably, I will not consent to a halving of the definition. The before mentioned Essayist on Chaucer, adduces the "vision of Pierce Ploughman" as a specimen of the Saxon style of poetry. And herein it becomes evident that he mistakes the meaning of the word _metre_. For those old lines, composed about the middle of the fourteenth century, are, notwithstanding the ancient mode of writing without breaks or division into lines, beyond doubt capable of being arranged in separate and distinct verses. I am not without support in the opinion here given; Dr. Hickes[6] maintains that the Saxons observed syllabic quantities "though perhaps not so strictly as the Greek and Latin heroic poets." It may be asked how this comes to be at all a question, since monuments of Saxon poetry still remain by which we can judge. But it is no such easy matter to judge correctly. Syllables were accented much at the whim of the versifyer; so much so that general rules for the disposition of accent are little less than useless. Add to this the common custom, before mentioned, of writing poetry and prose alike; and when we remember that the object in view is to ascertain the number and accentuation of syllables, the wonder will disappear.

[Footnote 6: Pref. Sax. Gram.]

One among the earliest specimens of the use of rhyme in the Island of Great Britain, is to be found in the Saxon Chronicle. The author says that he himself had seen the Conqueror, and we may thence infer that the lines were written in the reign of William Rufus, or at farthest in that of his brother and successor Henry. It may be as well before quoting this literary curiosity, to notice a distich in itself trifling, and only worth noticing as the very earliest specimen of Saxon Rhyme, on record.

Aldred, Archbishop of York, threw out two rhyming verses against one _Urse_, sheriff of Worcestershire, not long after the conquest:

"_Hatest thou Urse--Have thou God's curse._"
_Vocaris Ursus--Habeas dei maledictionem._

William of Malmsbury, who has preserved this precious morsel, says that he inserts this English, "_quod Latina verba non sicut Anglica concinnati respondent_." The _concinnity_ I presume consisted in the rhyme, and would scarcely have been deemed worth repeating if rhyme in English had not been a rare thing. It is quite apparent that rhyme and an improved metre were introduced by the Normans, among whom composition in their own dialect had been long before attempted in imitation of the jingling Latin rhythm.

The lines in the Saxon Chronicle to which I have referred, are a comment upon the changes effected by William. I will set them down in legible characters.

Thet he nam he rihte
And mid mycelan un-rihte
He foette mycel deor-frith
And he loegde laga therwith--
He forbead the heortas
Swylce Eac tha baras;
Swa swithe he lufode the hea-deor
Swylce he waere heora faeder,
Eac he sætte be tham haran,
That hi mosten freo faran.--

This may be translated after somewhat the following fashion: "He took money by right and unright--He made many deer parks and established laws by which," whosoever slew a hart or a hind was deprived of his eye-sight--"He forbade men to kill harts or boars, and he loved the tall deer as if he were their father. He decreed that the brindled hares should go free."

In addition to these, Matthew Paris mentions a canticle which 'the blessed Virgin' was pleased to dictate to Godric, a hermit near Durham.

From this time to the reign of Henry II, which began in 1154, we find no records of rhyming poetry. In that reign, one Layamon, a priest of Ernleye, near Severn, as he terms himself, translated from the French of Wace, a fabulous history of the Britons, entitled, "Le Bruit;" which, Wace himself, about the year 1150, had translated from the Latin of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This poem is for the most part after the Old Saxon fashion, without rhyme, except so far as a jingle at intervals may be so called. We next, if guided by the actual records of written poetry, are forced to pass over an interval of 100 years--to the middle of Henry the third's reign. The reasons of this gap are perhaps these--

The[7] scholars of the age affected to write in Latin--which they called the universal language. The more skilful poets who lived, as is usual with the race, upon the bounty of the great nobles, out of compliment to these their Norman benefactors, framed their verse into the Norman French; while the low and popular singers--then the only true _English_ poets--left nothing worth preservation. I will pass on hurriedly through this uninteresting portion of my slight history of written poetry, to the nearest resting-place, and thence take a back view of minstrelsy as nourished in the courts of the English Kings, and principally in that of Richard Coeur de Lion.

[Footnote 7: The poems of this interval have been translated into the English of Elizabeth's time, when the rage for gathering scraps of ballad into "garlands" was at its full. It is, however, impossible to distinguish them from the numerous pieces, really French--i.e. written not only in the French language, but in France, bearing similar date, and translated at the same time. It is impossible to draw hair lines or any kind of lines between these; or if possible, needs a more skilful antiquary, than the author of these cacoethes scribendi.]

In the reign of Henry III, we find that one Orm or Ormin, wrote a paraphrase of the gospel histories, entitled, Ormulum. Hickes and Wanley have both given large extracts from this, without discovering that it was poetry. But a close examination will render evident to any one, with any ear for metre, that the Ormulum is written very exactly, in verses of fifteen syllables[8] without rhyme, in imitation of the most common species of the Latin, tetrameter iambic. Another piece, a moral poem on old age, bears date about the same reign; it is more remarkable for a corrupt MS., from which the only print of the poem at all common, seems to have been taken, than for any thing else.

[Footnote 8: This metre is the same metre with that of the Modern Greeks, which Lord Byron tells us, shuffles on to the old tune: A captain bold of Halifax, &c.]

The next interval from the end of Henry the third's reign, to the middle of the fourteenth century, when Chaucer came upon the _dais_, was filled up with a swarm of 'small poets.' These were principally translators of popular poems from the Roman or French authors, and their compositions were thence called _Romances_. They neither improved on the material before gathered, nor added anything of value to the store. And so we come to Geoffrey Chaucer--whence, let me recur to another branch of the subject in hand.

I have said that minstrels were known among the Saxons before the conquest, and that these were in high repute at the Saxon courts. That Alfred himself was a poet, and on one occasion, a minstrel. The Normans brought with them their harpers and troubadours[9] and the profession received a great acquisition of strength and honor. Every Baron had his own joculator, and we find amongst the records of the Old English families, items of _largesse_ to wandering harpers. Such were at all seasons welcomed by the feudal nobles--perhaps for the same reason that our modern aristocrats of Virginia were hospitable--from a love of news. Minstrels as news-gleaners--often coming too from the royal court--were a source of entertainment to the lords, who, immured in their solitary castles among swampy moors, or perched on hill-tops almost inaccessible to man, seldom heard other than an enemy at their gates.

[Footnote 9: Vid. the story of Taillefer--Du Cange.]

At the court of Henry I,--to whom Sir Walter Scott refers in those lines of his rambling epistle to George Ellis--

"But who shall teach my harp to gain
A sound of the romantic strain,
Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere
Could win the royal Henry's ear,--
Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved,
The minstrel, and his lay approved?"

Minstrels and minstrelsy were especially favored.

Beauclerc--the most accomplished monarch of his day, so far as letters were concerned, became by fellowship of feeling and taste, the patron of all the caste. The court-fed minions, like the lizard whose color depends on the species of grass or plant of which it eats, became of course completely Norman in their feelings. Indeed the greater number were Normans by birth and education, lured to the English court by the ever ready bait of patronage; and those that were not, seeing that these met with favor, imitated them in style and every thing else. The '_Anglo_' might with propriety have been dropped in Sir Walter's verse just quoted.[10]

[Footnote 10: It is a melancholy sight to see so exalted a class of human beings, whether from necessity or not, forever debasing themselves into servile dependency. Even Dante, whose lament that he had to climb another's stair would seem the outbreak of an independent spirit, could humble himself before a Guido.]

That the six kings following the conqueror were, with an exception, completely Norman in their habits and predilections, we may easily discover in the history of English law, traced back to its foundation among the very roots of the feudal system. It was against Norman innovation that the independent Barons of the thirteenth century arose, and held John Lackland in duress until his name was affixed to Magna Charta--a paper purporting to restore affairs to the state in which Edward the Saxon left them. It was this same fondness for French men and French rules that forced from Henry III a signature to the same paper,--John having evaded his on plea of compulsion.

But, although extremely opposed to those principles of freedom which Hengist and his followers had brought from the woods of Germany, and which ages after marked England as a great and prosperous nation, Norman ideas and sentiments were a southern sun to the growth of poetry and other literature.

I have mentioned Henry Beauclerc's love for these. After him, in the struggles of the heroic Maud or Matilda, and in the turbulent reign of the ill-fated Stephen, neither party had leisure for literary pursuits. But in the reign of Henry II, love and poetry both received countenance from that gallant monarch. His amours with Rosamond Clifford of Woodstock, have been the theme of many a popular ballad. Richard Coeur de Lion, the knight errant king,[11] and king of knight errants, invited the most famous of the Provencal bards to his court. _Ubi mel ibi apes_, and London was soon a theatre crowded with troubadours warm from the feet of the Pyrenees and banks of the Rhone. The whispers of the sunny Provencal love-ditty were breathed upon the rough ballad spirit of an earlier time,--mellowing that spirit, and adding to its former dauntlessness the gloss of polish and refinement.--Richard was himself a troubadour; and though at the present day his deeds of verse would damn a schoolboy, they were then thought worthy of being coupled with his deeds in arms.

[Footnote 11: Richard was truly a king _errant_,--for he spent scarcely one out of the ten years of his reign, in England.]

Many romantic traditions have been handed down to us of that adventurous monarch and Blondel de Nesle, his favorite minstrel. We read in the records of our ancient chroniclers, a simple tale of the latter's long pilgrimage in search of the captive king his master. How Blondel came one evening as the sun went down among the hills of the Rhine, to the solitary castle of Trifels, where the monarch lay in a damp cold dungeon. How he seated himself at the dungeon grate, and taking his harp from his shoulder, began a song which Richard and he had made together in Palestine; and how the overjoyed king took up the words as they reached his ear, and chanted to the top of his full voice in answer. And farthermore, how Blondel returned to England, and went 'shoonless and unhooded' through all parts of the land, until the captive's loyal subjects were aroused; and until the great ransom was gathered together by which those subjects bought his freedom. Many such stories are told of the time of the chivalric Richard; and the devoted fidelity of his dependents will ever be a bright spot on the page of that history into which their names have stolen, and through which they are now receiving--reward dearest to noble spirits,--virtuous and stainless renown.

In the reign of John Lackland, the minstrels were the means of saving the life and fortunes of an Earl of Chester, by stirring up the rabble, who had gathered to a fair in the border of Wales, to go to his rescue. This they did under one Dutton, at sight of whom and his followers, the Welsh besiegers retired from before the Earl's castle.

In the time of Edward I, "a _multitude_ of minstrels attended at the knighting of his son."

Under the reign of Edward II, such privileges were claimed by this class, that it became necessary to restrain them by a particular statute. Yet notwithstanding this, towards the latter part of this reign, we find that the minstrels still retained the liberty of entrance at will into the royal presence, and were still remarkable for splendor of dress.

During the short rule of Richard II, John of Gaunt instituted a court of minstrels at Tutbury in Staffordshire. They had a charter, empowering them variously, and bestowing _inter alia_ the right of appointing "a king of the minstrels with four subordinate officers."

Under the usurper Bolingbroke--Henry the Fourth--the profession maintained its dignity and importance, and met with favor from king and noble, notwithstanding the contempt of the stuttering Hotspur.

I had rather be a kitten and cry--mew,
Than one of these same metre ballad mongers;
I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned
Or a dry wheel grate on an axletree, Etc.

Alcibiades cried down lute playing--because, though he excelled his comrades in beauty, eloquence, and gallantry, in this one little thing his skill failed him. Percy "spoke thick" and so song did not suit him. Even as late as Henry VIII, we find minstrels attached in licensed capacities, to the households of the great nobles. But the profession was fast sinking into disrepute; and in the great entertainment at Kenilworth Castle in 1575, a caricature copy of the old minstrel appeared among the sources of amusement prepared by the gallant Leicester for his royal mistress.

Thus had the profession completed a circle, and, in name at least, returned to its primitive state. Centuries before among the Saxons the singer was called _mimus_, _joculator_, _histrio_, indiscriminately. And though these words, like _parasite_, _demagogue_, _tyrant_, _sophist_ and others, bore a respectable meaning at the period of their first use, the minstrel in the course of time adapted himself to the meaning which time and change had given them, and in the reign of Elizabeth had become a mere '_jester_.' He turned the circle and went back to the titles of his progenitors, adding to the ignominy of those titles by wearing them. An act was at length passed, in the thirty-ninth year of the queen just mentioned, classing "all wandering minstrels, with rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars," and ordering them to be punished as such. From this severe judgment, however, those, attached by peculiar circumstances to the house of that Dutton spoken of above as the preserver of Ranulph the last Earl of Chester, were particularly excepted. This statute was the death blow to the few remnants of the genuine old minstrelsy.

I can now proceed undividedly in tracing out my slight sketch of English classic poets and written poetry.

Before I end this chapter, however, let me make a few remarks upon the spirit prevalent among the English after the conquest.

In the scrap of Saxon poetry quoted above, the reader will perceive that the chronicler mentions William's severe restrictions upon the exercise of woodcraft in the wide waste lands of the escheated manors. Following the same lines farther, we find in the old chronicle the winding up words, which I will translate from the original. After remarking that "he forbade men to kill harts or boars," the chronicler adds, "Rich men bemoaned it and poor men shuddered at it. But he was so stern and hot that he recked not the hatred of them all."

In consequence of these laws, Robinhoods and Littlejohns gathered in the matted thickets, and among the oak glades on the banks of every obscure lake and river, from the Thames to the Tweed. There was something alluring in the romantic life of an outlawed forester, and many a tall deer and bristling boar, died on the 'green shawe,' against whom that law, intended as a shield, pointed the arrow.

Thus sprung up a race of men of whom the ballad makers delighted to sing--coupling their names with 'Hereward the hardy outlaw' and the patriot heroes of the ground and trampled Saxons.

That the introduction of Norman manners brought with it more softness--a fact mentioned more than once--we may discover by comparing the productions of those bards who in the same age, sung in the rugged north country, and those who grew up in Kent and on the Thames. These latter were for years before the Norman's coming, receiving polish from their neighborhood, while those of Northumberland retained much of their early rudeness ages after. The bard who sings of the reyde on which

"The Perse out off Northumberland"

went to be killed among the Cheviot hills, has more roughness as well as more strength than any of his compeers on the Thames. This old poem is an important stone in the temple of English literature, and I will treat of it in due season, as coming within the pale of English classic poetry. This polish and increased softness introduced by the Normans, opened the eyes and ears of all to "the soother and honeyeder" style of poetry. And, indeed, unless Lord Bacon's remark,--that verse is a better balm than any the Egyptians knew, "for that it not only preserveth the stateliness of the form and the color of the face--which the Egyptian preservative doth not--but giveth to the one tenfold stateliness and borroweth from the rose for the other,"--be true, their women were passing stately and very beautiful. There were the three Mauds, all queens and all heroines. There was the proud yet "fair Rosamond," who forgot her pride in the arms of a royal lover; and many another fitting sharer in immortality with the Elgivas and Ediths of an earlier time.

Superstition too gave a tinge to poetry.--The Druids had left their foot marks upon the soil, and the ancient rites and feelings cherished in Wales--the last place of refuge for the injured Britons--still held an undefined influence over the hearts of their neighbors. This feeling blazed out for awhile, when the partisans of Henry slew Thomas a-Becket, the "child of love and wonder,"[12] before the altar of St. Bennet. And the murdered Archbishop was doubly canonized, in the holy ritual of Rome, and in the songs of those whom his death had made worshippers.

[Footnote 12: Sir J. Mackintosh tells an odd romance of the mother of the celebrated Archbishop, whom he calls the "child of love and wonder."]

But the greatest characteristic of the ballad, as used among the Norman successors to the Saxons in England, was a love for the legendary. Britagne--that country lying between the Loire and the Seine, had been peopled by a body of British emigrants about the time of the Saxon invasion under Hengist, and these calling themselves _Armoricans_, settled quietly down in a strange land. They retained many of their old British feelings, and when in the course of time they became nearly amalgamated with their Norman neighbors, and followed them into England, the old love of country revived and they sung of King[13] Arthur and his knights as champions of their forefathers. The strange legends of the early contests between Angles and Britons, were mere clews to the discovery of a thousand others, wholly unfounded in truth, yet none the less palatable to the ignorant. This love of the legendary remains to this day among the descendants of these people, and will, perhaps, never be obliterated.

[Footnote 13: "The words _Konung_, _Kyning_, _King_, _Kong_, _Koenig_, and others like them in the Teutonic languages, denoted every sort of command from the highest to that of a very narrow extent. It would be a gross fallacy to understand these words in their modern sense, when we meet them in Anglo-Saxon history."]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--I offer a very threadbare excuse for the publication of the following verses. They are published "at the request of a friend," for whom, indeed, they were written. You have accused me of obscurity, and to prevent a repetition of your censure, I will here add a scrap of explanation. "The Last Indian" is something of a Salathiel; he has survived his whole race. Stanza VI, refers to the Aztecs and other tribes long ago extinct, and supposed to have lived once upon a time, among the higher valleys east and west of the Mississippi. A second and more hardy people, referred to in stanza V, perhaps drove the Aztecs, as the Huns drove the Goths, southward, upon the rich regions of Mexico. These dead Mexican tribes are described on their return--led by a kind of _amor patriæ_ instinct--to their early homes in the north.

Before ending this scrawl, I would correct an error into which you have fallen with regard to my signature. "Zarry Zyle" should be

LARRY LYLE.

THE LAST INDIAN.

Once more, and yet once more,
I give unto my harp a midnight-woven lay;
--I heard the ebon waters roar,
I heard the flood of ages pass away.--_Kirke White_.

I.

I slept beneath a tree one Summer eve,
My couch a bed of blossom-beaded thyme,
My roof the bough which spirit fingers weave,
My slumber-song a brooklet's mellow chime:
I dreamed--and far away thro' space and time,
My liberated spirit joyfully
Forth went--a pioneer well skilled to climb
The cloudy crags and cliffs of mystery.
I dreamed--I speak my dream; and canst thou read it me?

II.

On the jagg'd summit of a mountain range,
More azure than the blue sky, sternly stood--
Like Sathanas of old--a wanderer strange,
Drinking deep grief, as one who meets the flood
Of bitterness in some parched solitude;
Before him spread, in undulations vast,
A Prairie sea, all isled with rock and wood;
And young winds closed their wings above its breast,
As faint bees close their wings when Summer days have passed.

III.

The Sun had come--a weary traveller--
Up o'er the hills of ether, for methought
'Twas many thousand years since Lucifer
Fell from his glory, and, with trial fraught
And leaden labor, Time had weakness brought
To Sun and Moon. Men saw the Sun upcome,
And marvelled at its lustre: Sages sought
That lustre's source, and said "at point of doom
Mysterious fires full oft the closing eye illume."

IV.

Methought a change came o'er the face of earth;
Hill, plain, and hollow shook as with the throe
Of mortal agony. The mountain girth
Shrunk, heaved, then burst asunder. In mad flow
The waters of great lakes foamed, battling through
Far scattered crags; and mighty rocks, down hurled
From mountain tops, laid bare the volcano--
The great volcano! and its flame unfurled,
Streamed redly, wrathfully, above the reeling world.

V.

A voice went forth, far louder than the roar
Of bounding rivers; and the summons broke
The deep sleep of earth's dead. Each burial shore
And tree-robed mound in groaning travail shook,
And giant skeletons from death awoke.
Barbarians seemed they, armed with spear and bow;
And thro' their ribs as thro' the winter oak
Winds whistled; while from bone lips evermo'
Uptrembled hollowly, horn murmurs, faint and low.

VI.

And, from the charnel valleys of the South,
A multitude, vast, vast beyond compare,
Moved darkly onward. Song and shout uncouth,
Betokened their wild joy; while on the air,
Forgotten instruments breathed music rare--
Sweet unknown tunes, as soft as hymn of rills.
The Mammoth and the Mastodon were there,
All yoked;--and then I heard far-groaning wheels:
The tomb had gaped--the dead tribes sought their early hills!

VII.

Amid the groan and rumbling heave of earth,
And noise of waters, came each silver tone.
But ere my wonder ceased, a storm had birth,
And rattling thunder mingled with the moan
And sob of nature. O'er car--skeleton--
A cloud-veil passed and hid them from my sight;
While o'er that cloud, far on a mountain throne,
A city rocked--illumined by the light
Of its own burning towers--fit type of frail man's might!

VIII.

And then the Sun waxed dim. The red Moon rode
Above the trembling nations, with an eye
Of wrath and anguish, and a brow of blood--
While one by one, afar, in the dun sky
The stars went out, as dew-drops, when winds sigh,
From grass and flower and thin leaf disappear.
Then no man saw the Sun! but still on high
The great Moon rode; and, ever redly clear,
Glared thro' thick fog and mist, till men grew dumb with fear.

IX.

The wanderer looked forth tremblingly, and lo!
A wide winged Eagle on the darkness came.
Her brood had died,--all died! and wild with wo
And reckless wrath, that terror might not tame--
Chasing the swart cloud from her eye of flame--
She sought the summit of that lonely peak.
She saw the Red Man, and with joyous scream,
Claimed fellowship; but to her iron beak
A single death-flash leapt, and wreathed her scornful neck.

X.

Innumerable mounds belched lurid streams,
And poured, in hot black showers, the cinder-rain;
I gazed and saw, as high the forked gleams
Sprang piercingly thro' volumed smoke again,
Earth's wan-faced myriads. From the Ocean-plain
Her living tribes had flown, to seek the light
And safety of that adamantine chain,
In shivering crowds; and wildered with affright,
They toiled in throngs to reach the mountain's farthest height.

XI.

And one, more daring, stood upon the brink
Of a volcano,--and his scathed hand raised,
Dripping with hissing lava. Some would shrink;
And many called on God; while some, amazed,
Stood statuelike: and some in madness seized
With Vampyre tooth, and laid their full veins bare.
And one--a blue-eyed maiden--upward gazed
In speechless wo, while gleamed her long fair hair
And ghastly cheek, beneath that flame's unearthly glare.

XII.

Methought, pale girl, that thou wert of the line
Of her I loved; and tears flowed full and fast,
To see a form so beautiful as thine
In the Volcano's death-light. This soon passed!
Again with strength I heard and saw. A blast
From unseen horn, rang wildly o'er the herd
Of dead and living men: The myriad vast
Wailed moaningly when each the strange blast heard,
And dead and living stood with stony brows upreared.

XIII.

Earth heaved anew, and toppling crags fell down
In darkness. Rivers turned and fled the main--
And galloping--like startled steeds back thrown
By some strong rampart--rushed in fear again
To their far founts, o'erwhelming rock and plain.
The fiend Tornado shrieked and wrung the wood,
Old Earth's scorched locks--until her ory brain
Lay shelterless and bare: while beryl-hued
And bubbling streams, breast, cheek, and cloven brow imbrued.

XIV.

Mine eye waned slowly into wakefulness;
The wild forms of my dream waxed faint and dim;
But ere they fled, methought the pallid race
Had crumbled into ashes; while o'er him,
Last of the injured, twin in death with time--
A strong joy swept. Woe's furrow had been ploughed
Deep in his heart; he was avenged!
As swim
O'er Autumn skies the fleets of shattered cloud,
So swam those scenes and passed. I turned and sobbed aloud.

XV.

A purfled Oreole sate upon a bough
Above me, and with gentle carollings
Shook the still air; e'er raining on my brow
The dewy globules, with her restless wings:
I love the bird,--I love the song she sings!
For that I heard it by a lonely stream
In days, when love and hope were rainbow things:
The sweet bird soothed me, but my brain will teem
Full many a mirthless eve, with fragments of that dream!

_Winchester, Va._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WILLIAMSBURG BIRTH NIGHT BALL.

MR. WHITE,--From all I can learn, your "Messenger" seems to give general and increasing satisfaction in this quarter: to use a French phrase, _tout le monde en dit du bien_. Though it is not probable any thing so light and playful, (and particularly at this late period of the month,) should obtain admission into its columns, yet, as one or two stanzas of the annexed _metrical_, have some how or other found their way into the newspapers, I have at last succeeded in procuring a copy of _the whole_, that you may exercise your own discretion in respect to its insertion. It originated as follows: Some young ladies of your place, during a visit to Williamsburg to attend the _Birth-night Ball_, &c. received from an accomplished female friend at Richmond, a charming poetical letter, describing _a musical party_ at which she had assisted; and narrating in a familiar, agreeable manner, the principal incidents that had occurred in their absence. The following lines were composed, as a _response_ to this lively and entertaining communication:--

WINTER SCENES AT WILLIAMSBURG.

Your letter, dear Mary, tho' resting so long,
Without a response, gave us infinite pleasure;
For seldom indeed, in the language of song,
And verse of so beautiful, smooth-flowing measure,
Have we met with the news and events of the day,
Reported and told, in so pleasing a way--
Is it _thus_, that the _Muses_ to each other write,
And render e'en _absence_, a source of delight?

_Euterpe_, perhaps, (ever partial, they say
To a _musical_ fête,) your concert attended,
And pleased with your talent to sing and to play,
Thought _music_ with _poetry_ happily blended--
And so, when you took up the pen to prepare
An account of your party, to make it more rare,
Bade you write it _in verse_--and _assisted_ you too,
To get up a style, so romantic and new.

Be this as it may--'tis certain that such
As have been indulged with a sight of your letter,
_Sans compliment_, all, have admired it much,
And say, of its kind, that they never read better.
But how can _we_ answer, in similar style,
A missive like yours?--we are sure you will smile
At our awkward and feeble attempt to compose,
An answer in verse, in our accent of prose.

But smile, if you please--even laugh, if you choose--
We _must_ make an effort to put rhymes together,
To give you some _items_ of Williamsburg news,
And tell you how well we got thro' the cold weather:
In converse and reading, we passed with delight,
The keen winter morning, the long winter night,
With a family never surpassed upon earth,
In kind hospitality, virtue and worth.

'Tis said, this _old city_ has seen its best days--
We cannot think so--its present possessors
Are subjects of just admiration and praise--
Whether _Judges_ or _Lawyers_, or learned _Professors_--
All mingle with freedom and ease in the throng,
And move in the current of fashion along;
At the _ball_, or the _board_, or the cheery _fire side_,
Society's ornament, pleasure and pride.

"And are there no _Doctors_ (perhaps you exclaim)
Distinguished by talents and virtues and merit?"
O yes, there are several; whom if we but _name_,
Or mention their liberal and generous spirit,
"The Messenger's" Critic may cry out--"O fie!
_Who ever blamed Hercules?_" Subjects so high,
Like Washington, need not a line to exalt
Their virtues and worth--_Who ever blamed G----?_

The fear we suggest, of the "Messenger's" lash,
As you well may imagine, is merely pretension;
Its _Critics_ at monarch-like _Hickories_ dash,
And smile at _flowret_ or _shrub's_ apprehension--
_Palmettoes_ escape too! but, _Party_, away!
'Tis time, to the _birthnight_ our homage to pay;
E'en _the Critic_ himself, we hope may agree
To spare our "_Sic semper_--PATRI PATRIÆ!"

The ball of the _birthnight_, on Monday took place,
And, once more, the hall of the _ancient Apollo_,
Assembled a train of youth, beauty, and grace,
In which, well escorted, we ventured to follow:
_Professors_ and _students_, the _bench_ and the _bar_,
The _single_ and _married_ of both sexes, _there_,
In mirth and good humor, the hours employed,
Partook of the _dance_, or the _music_ enjoyed.

The _supper_ was _superabundant_--in fine,
No _gourmand_ complained of a scanty provision
Of flesh, fish, or fowl--or of excellent wine,
Which _Bacchus's_ tribe thought a charming addition;
But the _nymphs_ and the _graces_ impatiently flew
To the ball room again, the _dance_ to renew;
And thoughtless of sleep or repose, in their glee,
Kept it up, it is said, till full _two_ or _three_.

Of the cake, fruit, and wine, there yet was such store,
Laid in and prepared for the festive occasion,
That the Managers thought of _a hop or two_ more,
As a matter of justice and easy persuasion;
So, on several nights, the beauty and grace
Of the young and the old that distinguish the place,
With music and dancing enlivened the hall,
Till the close of the week, gave repose to us all.

All needed it much; for a deep fall of snow,
Fatigued as we were, to _sleighing_ invited--
And who could refuse, pray, a gallant young _beau_,
_Alcibiades_ like, with _driving_ delighted?--
Thro' the streets, and _around and around_ on the _square_,
For the _belles_ and the _bells_, were all gathered _there_,
What racing--what contests _Olympic_ were seen,
On the snow-white expanse of the _cidevant_ green!

We have not half finished the _sleighing_ affair,
With some other topics of social diversion,
But here we must stop--as we now must prepare
For a trip to old _York_, on a pleasure excursion--
We _wish_ you were with us. Your eloquent pen
Might _there_ find a scene to amuse us again,
With lively description of things "old and new"--
But the carriage is waiting; so, dear girl, _adieu!_

UNREASONABLE WISHES.

The subjoined _morceau_ is worthy notice. Many grave essays have been written upon the vanity and unreasonableness of human wishes; but it would seem, without much effect. The rhapsodies of lovers in the olden time were thought sufficiently extravagant, and their wishes have been quoted as the very essence of inordinate imaginations: in fact, Shakspeare has classed the lover and the madman together:

"The lunatic, the lover and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold--
That's the madman--the other all as frantic
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt," &c.

Yet the old fashioned lovers kept some rule in their imaginary desires, when compared with the vast conception of our correspondent.

"Ye Gods! annihilate both time and space,
And make two lovers happy"--

and the passionate exclamation of Romeo,

"Oh that I were a glove upon that hand!
That I might kiss that cheek!"

were thought wild enough for those more stoical times. But it seems that the march of improvement is onward in love-making, as well as in road-making, as we will trust our correspondent's effusion to show.

* * * * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS S---- S----

Would that thou were some isle, my love,
And I the wave that bound thee,
With naught but Heaven's pure sky above,
And I sole guard around thee.

Then in one fond and long embrace,
Through calm and storm I'd cheer thee,
And bless the wind, that face to face,
Had brought me still more near thee.

_Norfolk, April 9, 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE BROKEN HEART.

I come, a stricken Deer,
Bearing the heart midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here.--_Mrs. Hemans_.

I come to my home in the forest shade,
By the summer boughs in their minglings made,
To my own bright hills and their clear blue sky,
With a broken heart in their stillness to die.

I come from the midst of a changing world,
And the banners of Hope in my bosom lie furled;
I bring from the spoiler a mournful token,--
The unfledged wing of my soul is broken.

There is weight on my spirit too painful to bear--
A feeling of gloom that corrodes like despair;
And the Rose's rich hue and the Violet's bloom,
Whisper we're nursed but to fade at thy tomb.

And there comes a sound on the murmuring breeze,
As it creeps thro' the boughs of a thousand trees,
And it echoes back from the stars of night
And the placid lake, like a mirror bright,

"Thou art not for earth! thou art not for earth!
And thou bearest no part in its gladness and mirth;
Its moments of pleasure have ages of care!
And the love which thou seekest is never found there!"

And Spring shall return with its leaves and flowers,
And the song of birds to the woodland bowers;
To me they shall be as to one that's departed--
There is rest in the grave for the broken hearted.

S. W. W.

_Raleigh, N. C._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A DISCOURSE

On the Progress of Philosophy, and its Influence on the Intellectual and Moral Character of Man; delivered before the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society, February 5, 1835. By _George Tucker_, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Virginia.

_Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Society_:--

I feel the weight of the task I have undertaken to perform, the more sensibly, when I recollect the brilliant qualifications of the member[1] who was the first choice of the society, and that I must disappoint the expectations which that choice so naturally raised. The grave and sober speculations which I am about to submit to your consideration will, I fear, but poorly compensate those who hear me, for the graces of elocution, the rich, but chaste imagery, and the rare felicity of diction by which that gentleman is distinguished; and I regret on your account, as well as my own, that he has thus unexpectedly failed to fulfil the wishes of his associates.

[Footnote 1: James McDowell, Esq. of Rockbridge.]

I have thought it would not be unappropriate to the occasion, to present to the society some views of the influence which philosophy has exercised, and must continue to exercise, over civilized man. Amidst the din of political controversy, and the bustling concerns of life, it is well sometimes to withdraw our thoughts from the tumultuous scenes around us to the calm views of rational speculation. Our minds may be not merely refreshed by the change, but they are likely to acquire elevation and purity in being thus severed from sordid and selfish pursuits, and made to contemplate human concerns in the transparent medium of truth and philosophy.

_Philosophy!_ a term to which some attach a mysterious import, as implying a kind of knowledge unattainable except by a few gifted minds--whilst others regard it as more an object of aversion than of affection,--inculcating a system of thought and action equally at war with nature and common sense,--as a perversion of human reason and feeling, at once cold and repulsive to others, and profitless to the possessor. This is not the philosophy of which I propose to speak, but her counterfeit; which, being as bold and forward as the other is modest and retiring, has made herself more known to the world than the character she personates, and has thus brought discredit on the name.

By philosophy, I mean that power of perceiving truths which are not obvious--of seeing the complicated relations of things, and of seeing them as they really are, unperverted by passion or prejudice. So far from being repugnant to nature and common sense, it constantly appeals to these for the justness of its precepts. It is indeed _Reason_, exercising its highest attributes in the multifarious concerns of human life. Such was the philosophy of Newton and Locke, and of our own illustrious Franklin.

It will be the object of the following remarks to show, that this philosophy is gradually increasing and diffusing itself over the world; that it now mingles in all human concerns, and gives to the present age its distinguishing characteristics; that its progress must still continue, and more and more influence the character of man and civilized society; and that in no country is its influence likely to be more extensively or beneficently felt than in this.