And truth the world went ill with them ;-he knew What her unpractised weakness was to her They asked their kind for hope, but there was none, 13. And if in Life there lie the seed Of real enduring being, If Love and Truth be not decreed To perish unforeseeing, This Youth the seal of death has stamp'd, This Hope, that sorrow might have damp'd, Is flowering fresh for ever. Mr and Mrs Patteson were drowned in the autumn of 1831. TO AN INFANT DAUGHter. I GAZE upon thy cherub face, And in its placid beauty trace C. N. S. The sacred stamp of those pure skies, That lent thee to a father's eyes. No earthly stain is in thee seen, So heavenly soft those features show, I see a young and ruddy maid But oh! sad change! on yonder bed Yet see again a nymph appears Anon, a grey and aged sire Sweet sunny children next I see, The mirror trembles, and no more With that fair face, as with its prey, I start-with grief and terror chill: That which hereafter thou shalt be THE OLD JACKDAW. 'Tis an old Jackdaw, and he sits all alone On a snow-clad stone; He caws aloud, for the blast is howling, A maiden sitteth in yonder hall, Where the ivy clings to the solid wall, She sighs" heigho," as she gazes forth On the cold blind face of the snowy north "Heigho, it is dull and drear! Oh! when will the soft spring cheer The bowers with its beauty bland, Shedding life on the waking land! Heigho, 'tis a weary, a weary hour, When the snow falls fast, And the moaning blast Sighs in the leafless bower; Heigho! heigho!" and the old Jackdaw Answers each sigh with a boding caw. At day's decline that ivied hall And many a lovely one is there, But none to match that lady fair, And Vanity whispers a gentle song To her willing heart as she glides along. Erewhile she longed for the gentle spring And the Zephyr's whispering; But now, while treading the gorgeous hall, And knowing that she is the light of all, The spring with the Zephyr's gentle stir May sink into wintry gloom for her; Yet oft she starts, with a fearful start, And the life-drops rush to her quailing heart As she hears, on the wintry blast, a caw From the ominous throat of the old Jackdaw. 'Tis midnight now, and the revellers all Are silently sleeping; No life is in the slumbering hall, Save the old Jackdaw, from a niche in the wall, Nodding and peeping; Nodding and peeping and shivering sore, As he hears the blast with a hollow roar Rush o'er the barren moor. Flitting through the chamber lone While the dew of sleep is strown O'er each weary wight; Through the aisles, so narrow and long, Where the wintry blast is sighing, With a dull and ghastly song The lone bird is flying; Flying, fluttering, to and fro, Into every chamber peeping, Where in beauty's genial glow, Lovely maids are sleeping; Sleeping in the pride of joy, Tripping Fancy's varied measure, Little dreaming aught can cloy Such an eager pleasure. But anguish still, in every clime, Shall pierce him to the core. And now from his throne on the branching yew The old Jackdaw comes fluttering in, And his croaking voice on the frosty breeze Is swelling in merry din. Thrice o'er the grave he flaps his wing, And thrice he croaks a hollow cry; Then spreading forth on the cutting blast He skims the deep blue sky. The years flow on-and now the tuneful throng Have filled the budding bowers with voice of song, And o'er that lone churchyard the placid flow Of summer sunset sheds a golden glow. Day blends with night in eve's serenest gloom, Amid the dwellings of the dreary tomb. On a grave a man is kneeling, I took the following ode, without reference either to its length or merits -which are both great simply because it stood next to those which have been so admirably translated by good Bishop Heber. I will not now inflict upon you an essay "on the peculiar character of Pindar as the great religious Poet of Greece," nor yet upon the comparative excellence of his various translators into English,-only, as I have mentioned Bishop Heber, permit me to advert to one single point-after all, perhaps, of no very great importance. The Bishop, if I remember rightly, when reviewing Girdlestone's Pindar in an early number of the Quarterly, after making himself merry with the strict observers of Strophe, Antistrophe, and Epode, proceeded to exemplify his precepts in the versions of two odes, appended to that review, as well as in the others (making, in all, six), which are comprised in the new edition of his poems, published by Murray, 1829. And in this license he has been followed by Messrs Wheelwright and Cary in their translations. When one considers the old, legendary, and ballad-like style of his poetry, as contrasted with the Dramatic Chorusses, there does, I confess, seem some reason for modifying our obedience to the despotic rule of Strophe, Antistrophe, and Epode. But, then, the question arises,-Have we a right, contrary to the expressed will and intention of the founder, to knock down all the walls and ceilings of his house of song, and lay the whole suite of apartments and complete interior of the building into one? (Which thing we do when we abolish all signs of Strophe &c., and make his odes plain monostrophies.) I trow not, and, therefore, I have adopted, in the accompanying version, the plan of making each Antistrophe correspond exactly with its twin Strophe treating the Epode as a "tertium quid;" though I believe the first two Epodes do chance to answer the one to the other all but precisely. By some such modification as this of the old Mede and Persian law, a sufficient idea of the form of an ancient ode is preserved to the English reader, without the constricta et distracta "membra poetæ" being subjected to the pleasing varieties of Procustean torture-which always must be the case, more or less, in every attempt to imitate to the very letter the precise reciprocating rythm of the original. Believe me, then, my dear Sir, Most faithfully yours, WILLIAM SNO BLEW. |