Part 3

_Mr. White_,--The following spirited lines, evidently composed on some occasion of serious import, together with a gold ring broken into several fragments, were accidentally found in my neighborhood about two years ago, enveloped in a neatly folded sheet of letter paper, without date, seal, or superscription. I send you a copy of them, hoping that by the aid of your very good "Messenger" they may meet the eye of poor "Corydon" again, or if you please, that of his "faithless one." Should you deem them worthy of publication, they are now at your service. Yours, respectfully,

AGRICOLA.

_Albemarle, March 25, 1835_.

THE LAST GIFT.

When I sit musing on the chequered past, (A term much darken'd with untimely woes,) My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, tho' half disown'd, and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart; I say to her she robbed me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart: Tho' wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love; For _she was most unworthy_. Now I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams The native pride of my much injured heart.--_H. K. White_.

I said to Love's accursed art, Behold this broken ring! Thus thou hast broke the bruised heart, As 'twere some worthless thing. But tho' it bleed at every pore, Crush'd by the reckless blow, My spirit still shall triumph o'er The tide of wo. I said to Friendship's lifted hand, Smite on--my bosom's bare-- Deep didst thou plunge the fatal brand, And left it rankling there. But still there throbs within these veins, The spirit's manliness, That scorns, amid its keenest pains, To seek redress. I said to Treachery's cunning dame, Come on--I dread thee not; Thou may'st pursue me till my name And being are forgot. But still my spirit ne'er shall weep, Tho' driv'n to Ocean's farthest Isle, I'd rather brave the angry deep, Than thy _cold smile_. I said to Mammon's golden store, Shine on--thou art but dust; I covet not thy worthless ore, Tho' by Misfortune crush'd. For deep within this bosom's shrine, There lives a spirit still, (More costly far than wealth of thine,) Thou canst not kill. I said to Earth's unstable ball, Roll on--it matters not; A few more suns will rise and fall, And I shall be forgot. But still the spirit in its bloom, Tho' oft by sorrow curs'd, Shall yet from thy sepulch'ral gloom With rapture burst. I said to Her, the faithless one, Who vow'd to love me best, Smile on--thy friendship I disown, And spurn thee from my breast. But still the spirit thou hast crush'd, The secret ne'er shall tell, And tho' thou tread it in the dust, 'Twill say--FAREWELL. I said to Him, the mighty Lord, Who reigns above the sky, And governs by his sovereign word, Man's darkest destiny,-- Father, I kiss thy chastening rod, In love I know 'twas given, For while it smites me 'neath the sod, It points to Heaven.

CORYDON.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

APOSTROPHE

Of the Æolian Harp to the Wind.

"Wind of the dark blue mountains, Thou dost but sweep my strings, Into wild gusts of mournfulness, With the rushing of thy wings.

When the gale is freshly blowing My notes responsive swell, And over music's power, Their triumphs seem to tell.

But when the breeze is sighing, Then comes 'a dying fall,' Less--less indeed exalting, But sweeter far than all.

It sighs, like hapless mortals, For youthful pleasures fled, For hopes and friends once cherished, Now mingled with the dead.

And oh! how sweetly touching, Is the sad and plaintive strain, Recalling former pleasures, That ne'er can live again.

Once more thy breezes freshen, And sweep the Æolian strings, And again their notes are swelling, With the rushing of thy wings.

They seem to cheer the drooping, To bid the wretched live, And with their sounds ecstatic, His withering hopes revive."

Alas! and in life's drama, Howe'er we play our part, Hope is forever breathing, On the Lyre of the Heart.

Hope is forever touching Some chord that vibrates there, While bitter disappointment Mars the delusive air.

Alternate joys and sorrows, Obedient to her call, Now breathe a strain that's flatt'ring, And now "a dying fall."

Yet how unlike the measures Of the sweet Æolian string! These soothe the heart that's wounded, Those plant a deeper sting.

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.]