Part 1
POEMS
EDWARD DOWDEN
POEMS
BY
EDWARD DOWDEN
MCMXIV. J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. LONDON AND TORONTO
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE WANDERER (_Sept. 1872_) 1
THE FOUNTAIN (_Sept. 1873_) 2
IN THE GALLERIES--
I. The Apollo Belvedere 5
II. The Venus of Melos 5
III. Antinous Crowned as Bacchus (_Feb. 1873_) 6
IV. Leonardo’s “Monna Lisa” (_Dec. 1872_) 7
V. St Luke Painting the Virgin (_April 1872_) 7
ON THE HEIGHTS (_Feb. 1872_) 9
“LA RÉVÉLATION PAR LE DÉSERT” (_Feb. 1873_) 13
THE MORNING STAR (_Aug. 1873_) 19
A CHILD’S NOONDAY SLEEP (_Aug. 1872_) 22
IN THE GARDEN--
I. The Garden (_1867_) 24
II. Visions (_1866_) 24
III. An Interior 25
IV. The Singer 26
V. A Summer Moon (_1866_) 26
VI. A Peach 27
VII. Early Autumn 28
VIII. Later Autumn 28
THE HEROINES (_1873_)--
Helena 33
Atalanta 36
Europa 44
Andromeda 47
Eurydice 52
BY THE SEA--
I. The Assumption (_Aug. 1872_) 58
II. The Artist’s Waiting (_Sept. 1872_) 58
III. Counsellors (_May 1872_) 59
IV. Evening (_July 1873_) 60
V. Joy (_May 1872_) 60
VI. Ocean (_May 1865_) 61
VII. News for London 61
AMONG THE ROCKS (_1873_) 63
TO A YEAR (_Dec. 31, 1872_) 66
A SONG OF THE NEW DAY (_Sept. 1872_) 67
SWALLOWS (_July 1873_) 68
MEMORIALS OF TRAVEL--
I. Coaching (_1867_) 70
II. In a Mountain Pass (_1867_) 70
III. The Castle (_1867_) 71
IV. Άισθητιχή φαντασία 72
V. On the Sea-cliff (_1873_) 72
VI. Ascetic Nature 73
VII. Relics 74
VIII. On the Pier of Boulogne 74
IX. Dover (_1862_) 75
AN AUTUMN SONG (_1872_) 76
BURDENS (_April 1872_) 77
SONG 78
BY THE WINDOW (_May 1872_) 81
SUNSETS (_June 1873_) 83
OASIS (_1866_) 84
FOREIGN SPEECH (_1868_) 85
IN THE TWILIGHT (_1873_) 86
THE INNER LIFE--
I. A Disciple 87
II. Theists (_April 1872_) 87
III. Seeking God (_1865_) 88
IV. Darwinism in Morals (_April 1872_) 88
V. Awakening (_1865_) 89
VI. Fishers 90
VII. Communion (_1862_) 90
VIII. A Sonnet for the Times 91
IX. Emmausward (_1867_) 91
X. A Farewell (_Sept. 1872_) 92
XI. Deliverance (_Oct. 1872_) 93
XII. Paradise Lost 93
THE RESTING PLACE (_Sept. 1872_) 95
NEW HYMNS FOR SOLITUDE--
I. (_April 1872_) 96
II. (_Oct. 1872_) 96
III. (_May 1872_) 97
IV. (_May 1872_) 98
V. (_April 1872_) 99
VI. (_April 1872_) 100
IN THE CATHEDRAL CLOSE (_1876_) 101
FIRST LOVE 103
THE SECRET OF THE UNIVERSE 105
BEAU RIVAGE HOTEL 107
IN A JUNE NIGHT 108
FROM APRIL TO OCTOBER--
I. Beauty 112
II. Two Infinities 112
III. The Dawn (_1865_) 113
IV. The Skylark (_1866_) 113
V. The Mill-race 114
VI. In the Wood 115
VII. The Pause of Evening (_Aug. 1873_) 115
VIII. In July 116
IX. In September 116
X. In the Window (_1865_) 117
XI. An Autumn Morning 118
SEA VOICES (_May 1872_) 119
ABOARD THE “SEA-SWALLOW” (_1865_) 121
SEA-SIGHING (_1871_) 122
IN THE MOUNTAINS (_April 1872_) 123
“THE TOP OF A HILL CALLED CLEAR” (_May 1872_) 126
THE INITIATION (_Oct. 1872_) 128
RENUNCIANTS (_Nov. 1872_) 130
SPEAKERS TO GOD (_April 1873_) 131
POESIA (_Feb. 1873_) 133
MUSICIANS (_Jan. 1873_) 134
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS--
A DAY OF DEFECTION 139
SONG AND SILENCE 140
LOVE-TOKENS (_Nov. 1872_) 141
A DREAM (_Aug. 1875_) 142
MICHELANGELESQUE (_Oct. 1872_) 143
LIFE’S GAIN (_Aug. 1872_) 144
COMPENSATION 145
TO A CHILD DEAD AS SOON AS BORN 146
BROTHER DEATH 147
THE MAGE 148
WISE PASSIVENESS (_1865_) 149
THE SINGER’S PLEA 150
THE TRESPASSER 151
RITUALISM 152
PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 153
KING MOB (_1865_) 154
THE MODERN ELIJAH 155
DAVID AND MICHAL (_1865_) 156
WINDLE-STRAWS (_1872_)--
I. 159
II. 159
III. 160
IV. 161
V. 161
VI. 162
VII. 162
VIII. 162
POEMS OF LATER DATES
AT THE OAR 167
THE DIVINING ROD 168
SALOME 169
WATERSHED 170
THE GUEST 171
MORITURUS 172
ALONE 173
FAME 174
WHERE WERT THOU? 175
A WISH 176
THE GIFT 177
RECOVERY 178
IF IT MIGHT BE 179
WINTER NOONTIDE 180
THE POOL 181
THE DESIRE TO GIVE 182
A BEECH-TREE IN WINTER 183
JUDGMENT 184
DÜRER’S “MELENCHOLIA” 185
MILLET’S “THE SOWER” 186
AT MULLION (CORNWALL) 187
THE WINNOWER TO THE WINDS 188
EMERSON 189
SENT TO AN AMERICAN SHAKESPEARE SOCIETY 190
NOCTURNE 191
THE WHIRLIGIG 192
PARADISE LOST AND FOUND 195
AFTER METASTASIO 199
THE CORN-CRAKE 200
IN THE CATHEDRAL 203
EDGAR ALLAN POE 204
DEUS ABSCONDITUS 205
SUBLIMINAL 206
LOUISA SHORE 207
FLOWERS FROM THE SOUTH OF FRANCE 208
TO HESTER 209
UNUTTERED 212
IMITATED FROM J. SOULARY’S “LE FOSSOYEUR” 213
IMITATED FROM GOETHE’S “GANYMEDE” 214
WITH A COPY OF MY “POEMS” 216
PROLOGUE TO MAURICE GEROTHWOHL’S VERSION OF VIGNY’S “CHATTERTON” 217
A SONG 219
THE DROPS OF NECTAR (_1789_) 220
AMOR AS LANDSCAPE-PAINTER 221
THE WANDERER 224
“ALEXIS AND DORA” 234
PREFACE
Goethe says in a little poem[A] that “Poems are stained glass windows”--“_Gedichte sind gemalte Fensterscheiben_”--to be seen aright not from the “market-place” but only from the interior of the church, “_die heilige Kapelle_”: and that “_der Herr Philister_” (equivalent for “indolent Reviewer”) glances at them from without and gets out of temper because he finds them unintelligible from his “market-place” standpoint. This comparison is a pretty conceit, and holds good as a half truth--but not more than a half: for while the artist who paints his “church windows” needs only to make them beautiful from within, the maker of poems must so shape and colour his work that its outer side--the technical, towards the “market-place” of the public--shall have no lack of beauty, though differing from the beauty visible from the spiritual interior.
[A] “Sechzehn Parabeln,” _Gedichte_, Leoper’s edition (p. 180) of Goethe’s _Gedichte_.
The old volume of _Edward Dowden’s Poems_ of 1876, which is now reprinted with additions, has been, to a limited extent, long before the public--seen from the “market-place” by general critics, who, for the most part, approved the outer side of the “painted windows,” and seen perhaps from within by some few like-minded readers, who, though no definite door was opened into “_die heilige Kapelle_,” somehow entered in.
But a great many people, to whom the author’s prose works are well known, have never even heard that he had written poetry. This is due in a measure to the fact that the published book of poems only got into circulation by its first small edition. Its second edition found a silent apotheosis in flame at a great fire at the publisher’s in London, in which nearly the whole of it perished.
Edward Dowden’s chief work has been as a prose writer. That fact remains--yet it is accidental rather than essential. In the early seventies he felt the urge very strongly towards making verse his vocation in life, and he probably would have yielded to it, but for the necessity to be bread-winner for a much-loved household. Poetry is a ware of small commercial value, as most poets--at least for a long space of their lives--have known, and prose, for even a young writer of promise, held out prospects of bread for immediate eating. Hence to prose he turned, and on that road went his way, and whether the accidental circumstances that determined his course at the parting of the ways wrought loss or gain for our literature, who can say?
But he never wholly abandoned verse, and all through his life, even to the very end, he would fitfully, from time to time, utter in it a part of himself which never found complete issue in prose and which was his most real self.
Perhaps the nearest approaches to his utterance in poetry occurred sometimes in his College lecturing, when in the midst of a written discourse he would interrupt it and stop and liberate his heart in a little rush of words--out of the depths, accompanied by that familiar gesture of his hands which always came to him when emotionally stirred in speaking. Some of his students have told me that they usually found those little extempore bits in a lecture by far the most illuminated and inspiring parts of it, especially as it was then that his voice, always musical in no common degree, vibrated, and acquired a richer tone.
In his prose writings in general he seemed to curb and restrain himself. That he did so was by no means an evil, for the habitual retinence in his style gave to the little rare outbreaks of emotion the quality of charm that we find in a tender flower growing out of a solid stone wall unexpectedly.
Not infrequently a sort of hard irony was employed by him, as restraint on enthusiasm, with occasional loosening of the curb.
* * * * *
In Edward Dowden’s soul there seemed to be capacities which might, under other circumstances, have made him more than a minor poet. His was a more than usually rich, sensuous nature. This, combined with absolute purity--the purity not of ice and snow, but of fire. And, superadded, was an unlimited capacity for sternness--that quality which, as salt, acts as preservative of all human ardours. He came from his Maker, fashioned out of the stuff whereof are made saints, patriots, martyrs, and the great lovers in the world. His work as a scholar never obliterated anything of this in him. By this, his erudition gained richness--the richness of vital blood. It was as no anæmic recluse that he dwelt amongst his book-shelves, and hence no Faust-like weariness of intellectual satiety ever came to him, no sense of being “_beschränkt mit diesem Bücherhauf_” in his surroundings of his library (which latterly had grown to some twenty-four thousand volumes). He lived in company with these in a twofold way, keenly and accurately grasping all their textual details, and at the same time valuing them for the sake, chiefly, of spiritual converse with the writers.
Besides the spiritual converse he gained thus, he found, as a book-lover, a fertile source of recreation in the collecting of literary rarities, old books, MSS. and curiosities. In this he felt the keen zest of a sportsman. This was his shooting on the moors, his fishing in the rivers. No living creature ever lost its life for his amusement, but in this innocuous play he found unfailing pleasure, and many a piece of luck he had with his gun or rod in hitting some rare bird, or landing some big prize of a fish out of old booksellers’ catalogues or the “carts” in the back streets.
His physical nature was fully and strongly developed, and it is out of strong physical instincts that strong spiritual instincts often grow--the boundary line between them being undefined.
His one athletic exercise--swimming--was to him a joy of no common sort. He gave himself to the sea with an eagerness of body, soul and spirit, breasting the bright waters exultingly on many a summer’s day on some West of Ireland or Cornish shore, revelling in the sea’s life and in his own.
And akin to that, in the sensuous, spiritual region of the soul, was his feeling for all External Nature, his deep delight in the coming of each new Spring--its blackthorn blossoms, its hazel and willow catkins, its daffodils--and his response, as the year went on in its procession, to the glory of the furze and heather glow and to all Earth’s sounds and silences.
And of a like sort was his enjoyment of music which had the depth of a passion.
Very possibly, if his lot had been cast in early Christian or mediæval times, all these impulses towards the joy and beauty of the earth might have been sternly crushed out by the moral forces of his character.
Looking at a picture of St. Jerome one day--not unlike E. D. in feature--I said to him, “There’s what _you_ would have been if you had lived in those times.” (The saint is depicted there as lean, emaciated and woefully dirty!).
It was well for Edward Dowden that he was laid hold of in his early life by that great non-ascetic soul, William Wordsworth. He was initiated into the inner secret of Wordsworth. He had experience of the Wordsworthian ecstasy--that ecstasy which comes, if at all, straight as a gift from God, and is not to be taught by the teaching of the scribes.
Through kinship a man who is born potentially a poet comes first into relation with poets, and with E. Dowden’s sensuousness of capacities it was natural that he should be in his early years attracted to Keats, to the long, deep, rich dwelling of his verse on the vision and the sounds of Nature. It was not until he had advanced some way towards middle life that he came into vital contact with Shelley. He had felt aloof from him; but the attraction, when once owned, became very powerful, and he yielded to the delight of the swift motion of the Shelleyan utterances.
He always recognized Robert Browning’s greatness profoundly, and responded to all his best truths, especially as regards the relation, in love, of Man and Woman, but he never became pledged to an all-round Browning worship; his admiration had no discipleship in it.
For Walt Whitman, with whom a personal friendship, strong on both sides, was formed, he felt the cordial reverence due to the giver of what he reckoned as a gift of immense value. While condemning whatever was unreticent in _Leaves of Grass_, he at the same time saw there the great flood of spirituality available as a force for emancipation of our hearts from pressure of sordidnesses in the world.
It is somewhat remarkable that with all his trend towards the great spiritual and mystical forces in literature he was all along never without a keen appreciation of the writers who brought mundane shrewdness and wisdom. The first book he bought for himself in childhood with the hoarded savings of his pocket-money was _Bacon’s Essays_, with which as a small boy he became very familiar. And all through his life he sought with unfailing pleasure the companionship of Jane Austen again and again. And amongst the books which he himself made, it was perhaps his _Montaigne_ that gave him, in the process of making, the delicatest satisfaction--the satisfaction of witnessing and analysing the dexterous play of human intellect and character on low levels.
His attraction to Goethe--very dominant with him in middle life--came, I imagine, from the fact that he saw in that mightiest of the Teutons two diverse qualities in operation--the measureless intellectual spirituality and the vast common-sense of mundane wisdom.
In this attraction there was also the element of the magnetism which draws together opposites--not less forcible than the attraction between affinities.
As regards the moral nature, his own was as far as the North Pole is from the South from that of the great sage of Weimar, whose serenely-wise beneficence contained no potentialities of sainthood, martyrdom or absolute human love. He sought gain from Goethe just _because_ of that unlikeness to what was in himself.
At one period of his literary work he was intending to make as his “_opus magnus_” a full study of Goethe’s life and works, and with that intent he carried on a course of reading, and laid in a great equipment of workman’s tools--Goethe books in German, French and English. From this project he was turned aside by a call to write the life of Shelley--a long and difficult task. But he never lost sight of Goethe. In one of the later years of his life, as recreation in a summer’s holiday in Cornwall, he translated the whole of the “West-Eastern Divan” into English verse, and previously, from time to time, isolated essays on Goethe themes appeared amongst his prose writings. And yet it is not unlikely that even if the task of Shelley’s biography had not intervened, no complete study, such as he had at first planned, might have been ever accomplished by him on Goethe, for with experience there came to him a growing conviction that his best work in criticism could only be done in dealing with what was written in his mother-tongue.
Some of Edward Dowden’s friends, Nationalist and Unionist both, have felt regret that he, the gentle scholar, gave such large share of his energies to the strife of politics, as if force were subtracted thereby from his work in Literature. They are mistaken. The output of energy thus given came back to the giver, reinforcing his prose writing with a mundane vigour and virility, exceeding what it might have had if he had kept himself aloof from the affairs of the nation.