Chapter 2

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!'

[1] An artist of celebrity is now engaged on a portrait of Mr. Southey, _cum privilegio_, we suppose, Mr. Southey is not the only public man, whose lineaments have been traduced by engravers. Only look at some of the patriotic gentlemen who figure at public meetings, and in _outline_ on cards, &c. But Houbraken is now known to have been no more honest than his successors in portrait engraving: although physiognomy and craniology ought to help the moderns out in these matters.

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 powerful composition, and the Cameronian Preacher, a prose tale, of equal effect. In addition to the pieces already mentioned, by the editor, is one of extraordinary excellence--the Magic Bridle: his Lines to a Boy plucking Blackberries, are a very pleasing picture of innocence:--

There stay in joy, Pluck, pluck, and eat thou happy boy; Sad fate abides thee. Thou mayst grow A man: for God may deem it so, I wish thee no such harm, sweet child: Go, whilst thou'rt innocent and mild: Go, ere earth's passions, fierce and proud, Rend thee as lightning rend the cloud: Go, go, life's day is in the dawn: Go, wait not, wish not to be man.

One of his pieces we quote entire:--

THE SEA KING'S DEATH-SONG.

I'll launch my gallant bark no more, Nor smile to see how gay Its pennon dances, as we bound Along the watery way; The wave I walk on's mine--the god I worship is the breeze; My rudder is my magic rod Of rule, on isles and seas: Blow, blow, ye winds, for lordly France, Or shores of swarthy Spain: Blow where ye list, of earth I'm lord, When monarch of the main.

When last upon the surge I rode, A strong wind on me shot, And tossed me as I toss my plume, In battle fierce and hot. Three days and nights no sun I saw, Nor gentle star nor moon; Three feet of foam dash'd o'er my decks, I sang to see it--soon The wind fell mute, forth shone the sun, Broad dimpling smiled the brine; I leap'd on Ireland's shore, and made Half of her riches mine.

The wild hawk wets her yellow foot In blood of serf and king: Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe, And helm and cuirass ring; The foam flies from the charger's flanks, Like wreaths of winter's snow; Spears shiver, and the bright shafts start In thousands from the bow-- Strike up, strike up, my minstrels all Use tongue and tuneful chord-- Be mute!--My music is the clang Of cleaving axe and sword.

Cursed be the Norseman who puts trust In mortar and in stone; Who rears a wall, or builds a tower, Or makes on earth his throne; My monarch throne's the willing wave, That bears me on the beach; My sepulchre's the deep sea surge, Where lead shall never reach; My death-song is the howling wind, That bends my quivering mast,-- Bid England's maidens join the song, I there made orphans last.

Mourn, all ye hawks of heaven, for me Oft, oft, by frith and flood, I called ye forth to feast on kings; Who now shall give ye food? Mourn, too, thou deep-devouring sea, For of earth's proudest lords We served thee oft a sumptuous feast With our sharp shining swords; Mourn, midnight, mourn, no more thou'lt hear Armed thousands shout my name. Nor see me rushing, red wet shod, Through cities doomed to flame.

My race is run, my flight is flown; And, like the eagle free, That soars into the cloud and dies, I leave my life on sea. To man I yield not spear nor sword Ne'er harmed me in their ire, Vain on me Europe shower'd her shafts, And Asia pour'd her fire. Nor wound nor scar my body bears, My lip made never moan, And Odin bold, who gave me life, Now comes and takes his own.

Light! light there! let me get one look,-- Yon is the golden sky, With all its glorious lights, and there My subject sea flows by; Around me all my comrades stand, Who oft have trod with me On prince's necks, a joy that's flown, And never more may be. Now put my helmet on my head, My bright sword in my hand, That I may die as I have lived. In arms and high command.

In the prose department the most striking is the description of Abbotsford, quoted in our 339th number. There is an affecting Tale of the Times of the Martyrs, by the Rev. Edward Irving, which will repay the reader's curiosity. The Honeycomb and Bitter Gourd is a pleasing little story; and Paddy Kelleger and his Pig, is a fine bit of humour, in Mr. Croker's best style. The brief Memoir of the late Sir George Beaumont is a just tribute to the memory of that liberal patron of the Fine Arts, and is an opportune introduction into such a work as the present. The letter of Lord Byron, too, from Genoa in 1823, will be interesting to the noble poet's admirers.

Among the illustrations we can only notice the Lute, by C. Rolls, after Bonnington; Morning, by E. Goodall, from Linton's "joyful" picture; Sir W. Scott in his Study (qy. the forehead); a little "Monkeyana," by Landseer; Chillon, by Wallis, from a drawing by Clarkson Stanfield--a sublime picture; Fonthill, an exquisite scene from one of Turner's drawings; Beatrice, from a picture by Howard; the Lake View of Newstead, after Danby; the Snuff-Box, from Stephanoff; and last, though not least, Gainsborough's charming Young Cottagers, transferred to steel, by J.H. Robinson--perhaps the most attractive print in the whole series.

With this hasty notice we conclude, in the language of our announcement of the present work, "wishing the publisher _many Anniversaries_"

* * * * *

FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING.

_EDITED BY THOMAS PRINGLE, ESQ._

The present volume will support, if not increase, the literary reputation which this elegant work has enjoyed during previous years. The editor, Mr. Pringle, is a poet of no mean celebrity, and, as we are prepared to show, his contribution, independent of his editorial judgment, will do much toward the Friendship's Offering maintaining its ground among the Annuals for 1829.

There are twelve engravings and a presentation plate. Among the most beautiful of these are Cupid and Psyche, painted by J. Wood, and engraved by Finden; Campbell Castle, by E. Goodall, after G. Arnald; the Parting, from Haydon's picture now exhibiting with his Mock Election, "Chairing;" Hours of Innocence, from Landseer; La Frescura, by Le Petit, from a painting by Bone; and the Cove of Muscat, a spirited engraving by Jeavons, from the painting of Witherington. All these are of first-rate excellence; but another remains to be mentioned--Glen-Lynden, painted and engraved by _Martin_, a fit accompaniment for Mr. Pringle's very polished poem.

The first _prose_ story is the Election, by Miss Mitford, with the hero a downright John Bull who reads Cobbett. The next which most attracts our attention is Contradiction, by the author of an Essay on Housekeepers--but the present is not so Shandean as the last-mentioned paper; it has, however, many good points, and want of room alone prevents our transferring it. Then comes the Covenanters, a Scottish traditionary tale of _fixing_ interest; the Publican's Dream, by Mr. Banim, told also in the Winter's Wreath, and Gem:

_Thrice_ the brindled cat hath mewed;

and Zalim Khan, a beautiful Peruvian tale of thirty pages, by Mr. Fraser. The French story, La Fiancée de Marques, is a novelty for an annual, but in good taste. Tropical Sun-sets, by Dr. Philip, is just to our mind and measure:--

A setting sun between the tropics is certainly one of the finest objects in nature.

From the 23rd degree north to the 27th degree south latitude, I used to stand upon the deck of the Westmoreland an hour every evening, gazing with admiration upon a scene which no effort either of the pencil or the pen can describe, so as to convey any adequate idea of it to the mind of one who has never been in the neighbourhood of the equator. I merely attempt to give you a hasty and imperfect outline.

The splendour of the scene generally commenced about twenty minutes before sun-set, when the feathery, fantastic, and regularly crystallized clouds in the higher regions of the atmosphere, became fully illumined by the sun's rays; and the fine mackerel-shaped clouds, common in these regions, were seen hanging in the concave of heaven like fleeces of burnished gold. When the sun approached the verge of the horizon, he was frequently seen encircled by a halo of splendour, which continued increasing till it covered a large space of the heavens: it then began apparently to shoot out from the body of the sun, in refulgent pencils, or radii, each as large as a rainbow, exhibiting, according to the rarity or density of the atmosphere, a display of brilliant or delicate tints, and of ever changing lights and shades of the most amazing beauty and variety. About twenty minutes after sun-set these splendid shooting rays disappeared, and were succeeded by a fine, rich glow in the heavens, in which you might easily fancy that you saw land rising out of the ocean, stretching itself before you and on every side in the most enchanting perspective, and having the glowing lustre of a bar of iron when newly withdrawn from the forge. On this brilliant ground the dense clouds which lay nearest the bottom of the horizon, presenting their dark sides to you, exhibited to the imagination all the gorgeous and picturesque appearances of arches, obelisks, mouldering towers, magnificent gardens, cities, forests, mountains, and every fantastic configuration of living creatures, and of imaginary beings; while the finely stratified clouds a little higher in the atmosphere, might really be imagined so many glorious islands of the blessed, swimming in an ocean of light.

The beauty and grandeur of the sunsets, thus imperfectly described, surpass inconceivably any thing of a similar description which I have ever witnessed, even amidst the most rich and romantic scenery of our British lakes and mountains.

Were I to attempt to account for the exquisite enjoyment on beholding the setting sun between the tropics, I should perhaps say, that it arose from the warmth, the repose, the richness, the novelty, the glory of the whole, filling the mind with the most exalted, tranquillizing, and beautiful images.

* * * * *

There is likewise a tale, Going to Sea, and the Ship's Crew, by Mrs. Bowdich, which equally merits commendation.

Powerful as may be the aid which the editor has received from the _contributors_ to the "Friendship's Offering," we are bound to distinguish one of his own pieces--_Glen-Lynden, a Tale of Teviot-dale_, as the sun of the volume. It is in Spenserian verse, and a more graceful composition cannot be found in either of the Annuals. It is too long for entire extract, but we will attempt to string together a few of its beauties. The scenery of the Glen is thus described:--

A rustic home in Lynden's pastoral dell With modest pride a verdant hillock crown'd: Where the bold stream, like dragon from the fell, Came glittering forth, and, gently gliding round The broom-clad skirts of that fair spot of ground, Danced down the vale, in wanton mazes bending; Till finding, where it reached the meadow's bound, Romantic Teviot on his bright course wending. It joined the sounding streams--with his blue waters blending.

Behind a lofty wood along the steep Fenced from the chill north-east this quiet glen: And green hills, gaily sprinkled o'er with sheep, Spread to the south; while by the brightening pen, Rose the blithe sound of flocks and hounds and men, At summer dawn, and gloaming; or the voice Of children nutting in the hazelly den, Sweet mingling with the winds' and waters' noise, Attuned the softened heart with Nature to rejoice.

Upon the upland height a mouldering Tower, By time and outrage marked with many a scar, Told of past days of feudal pomp and power When its proud chieftains ruled the dales afar. But that was long gone by: and waste and war, And civil strife more ruthless still than they, Had quenched the lustre of Glen-Lynden's star, Which glimmered now, with dim reclining ray, O'er this secluded spot,--sole remnant of their sway.

Lynden's lord, and possessor of this tower, is now "a grave, mild, husbandman," and his wife--

She he loved in youth and loved alone, Was his.

* * * * *

And now his pleasant home and pastoral farm Are all the world to him: he feels no sting Of restless passions; but, with grateful arm, Clasps the twin cherubs round his neck that cling, Breathing their innocent thoughts like violets in the spring.

Another prattler, too, lisps on his knee, The orphan daughter of a hapless pair, Who, voyaging upon the Indian sea, Met the fierce typhon-blast--and perished there: But she was left the rustic home to share Of those who her young mother's friends had been: An old affection thus enhanced the care With which those faithful guardians loved to screen This sweet forsaken flower, in their wild arbours green.

* * * * *

But dark calamity comes aye too soon-- And why anticipate its evil day? Ah, rather let us now in lovely June O'erlook these happy children at their play: Lo, where they gambol through the garden gay, Or round the hoary hawthorn dance and sing, Or, 'neath yon moss-grown cliff, grotesque and grey Sit plaiting flowery wreaths in social ring, And telling wondrous tales of the green Elfin King.

* * * * *

Ah! evil days have fallen upon the land; A storm that brooded long has burst at last; And friends, like forest trees that closely stand With roots and branches interwoven fast, May aid awhile each other in the blast; But as when giant pines at length give way The groves below must share the ruin vast, So men who seemed aloof from Fortune's sway Fall crushed beneath the shock of loftier than they.

Even so it fared. And dark round Lynden grew Misfortune's troubles; and foreboding fears, That rose like distant shadows nearer drew O'ercasting the calm evening of his years; Yet still amidst the gloom fair hope appears, A rainbow in the cloud. And, for a space, Till the horizon closes round of clears, Returns our tale the enchanted path to trace Where youth's fond visions rise with fair but fleeting grace. Far up the dale, where Lynden's ruined towers O'erlooked the valley from the old oak wood, A lake blue gleaming from deep forest bowers, Spread its fair mirror to the landscape rude: Oft by the margin of that quiet flood, And through the groves and hoary ruins round, Young Arthur loved to roam in lonely mood; Or here, amid tradition's haunted ground, Long silent hours to lie in mystic musings drowned.

* * * * *

Here Arthur loved to roam--a dreaming boy-- Erewhile romantic reveries to frame, Or read adventurous tales with thrilling joy. Till his young breast throbbed high with thirst of fame; But with fair manhood's dawn a softer flame 'Gan mingle with his martial musings high; And trembling wishes--which he feared to name, Yet oft betrayed in many a half-drawn sigh-- Told that the hidden shaft deep in his heart did lie.

And there were eyes that from long silken lashes With stolen glance could spy his secret pain-- Sweet hazel eyes, whose dewy light out-flashes Like joyous day-spring after summer rain; And she, the enchantress, loved the youth again With maiden's first affection, fond and true, --Ah! youthful love is like the tranquil main, Heaving 'neath smiling skies its bosom blue-- Beautiful as a spirit--calm, but fearful too!

Our limits compel us to break off once more, which is a source of regret, especially when our path is strewn with such gems as these:--

A gentle star lights up their solitude And lends fair hues to all created things; And dreams alone of beings pure and good Hover around their hearts with angel wings-- Hearts, like sweet fountains sealed, where silent rapture springs.

Here is a beautiful apostrophe--

Oh Nature! by impassioned hearts alone Thy genuine charms are felt. The vulgar mind Sees but the shadow of a power unknown; Thy loftier beauties beam not to the blind And sensual throng, to grovelling hopes resigned: But they whom high and holy thoughts inspire Adore thee, in celestial glory shrined In that diviner fane where Love's pure fire Burns bright, and Genius tunes his loud immortal Lyre!

The halcyon days at length draw to a close, and sorrows "in battalions" compel them to emigrate and bid

Farewell to the scenes they ne'er shall visit more.

The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the lovers of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination is with the following exquisite ballad:--

Our native land, our native vale, A long and last adieu! Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale, And Cheviot mountains blue.

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams renowned in song: Farewell, ye blithsome braes and meads Our hearts have loved so long.

Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow; Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe.

The battle-mound, the border-tower, That Scotia's annals tell: Thy martyr's grave, the lover's bower-- To each--to all--farewell!

Home of our hearts! our father's home! Land of the brave and free! The keel is flashing through the foam That bears us far from thee.

We seek a wild and distant shore Beyond the Atlantic main: We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again.

But may dishonour blight our fame, And quench our household fires, When we or ours forget thy name, Green island of our sires.