letters to dead authors-第18部分

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How　noble　that　is；　how　natural；　how　unconsciously　Greek！　　You　found；　oddly；　in　good　Mrs。　Barbauld；　the　merits　of　the　Tenth　Muse：


In　thy　sweet　sang；　Barbauld；　survives　Even　Sappho's　flame！


But　how　unconsciously　you　remind　us　both　of　Sappho　and　of　Homer　in　these　strains　about　the　Evening　Star　and　the　hour　when　the　Day　＇Greek　text＇？　　Had　you　lived　and　died　the　pastoral　poet　of　some　silent　glen；　such　lyrics　could　not　but　have　survived；　free；　too；　of　all　that　in　your　songs　reminds　us　of　the　Poet's　Corner　in　the　〃Kirkcudbright　Advertiser。〃　　We　should　not　have　read　how


Phoebus；　gilding　the　brow　o'　morning；　Banishes　ilk　darksome　shade！


Still　we　might　keep　a　love…poem　unexcelled　by　Catullus；


Had　we　never　loved　sae　kindly；　Had　we　never　loved　sae　blindly；　Never　metor　never　parted；　We　had　ne'er　been　broken…hearted。


But　the　letters　to　Clarinda　would　have　been　unwritten；　and　the　thrush　would　have　been　untaught　in　〃the　style　of　the　Bird　of　Paradise。〃

A　quiet　life　of　song；　fallentis　semita　vitae；　was　not　to　be　yours。　Fate　otherwise　decreed　it。　　The　touch　of　a　lettered　society；　the　strife　with　the　Kirk；　discontent　with　the　State；　poverty　and　pride；　neglect　and　success；　were　needed　to　make　your　Genius　what　it　was；　and　to　endow　the　world　with　〃Tam　o'　Shanter；〃　the　〃Jolly　Beggars；〃　and　〃Holy　Willie's　Prayer。〃　　Who　can　praise　them　too　highlywho　admire　in　them　too　much　the　humour；　the　scorn；　the　wisdom；　the　unsurpassed　energy　and　courage？　　So　powerful；　so　commanding；　is　the　movement　of　that　Beggars'　Chorus；　that；　methinks；　it　unconsciously　echoed　in　the　brain　of　our　greatest　living　poet　when　he　conceived　the　〃Vision　of　Sin。〃　　You　shall　judge　for　yourself。　　Recall：


Here's　to　budgets；　bags；　and　wallets！　Here's　to　all　the　wandering　train！　Here's　our　ragged　bairns　and　callets！　One　and　all　cry　out；　Amen！

A　fig　for　those　by　law　protected！　Liberty's　a　glorious　feast！　Courts　for　cowards　were　erected！　Churches　built　to　please　the　priest！


Then　read　this：


Drink　to　lofty　hopes　that　cool　…　Visions　of　a　perfect　state：　Drink　we；　last；　the　public　fool；　Frantic　love　and　frantic　hate。

*　*　*

Drink　to　Fortune；　drink　to　Chance；　While　we　keep　a　little　breath！　Drink　to　heavy　Ignorance；　Hob　and　nob　with　brother　Death！


Is　not　the　movement　the　same；　though　the　modern　speaks　a　wilder　recklessness？

So　in　the　best　company　we　leave　you；　who　were　the　life　and　soul　of　so　much　company；　good　and　bad。　　No　poet；　since　the　Psalmist　of　Israel；　ever　gave　the　world　more　assurance　of　a　man；　none　lived　a　life　more　strenuous；　engaged　in　an　eternal　conflict　of　the　passions；　and　by　them　overcome〃mighty　and　mightily　fallen。〃　　When　we　think　of　you；　Byron　seems；　as　Plato　would　have　said；　remote　by　one　degree　from　actual　truth；　and　Musset　by　a　degree　more　remote　than　Byron。



LETTERTo　Lord　Byron



My　Lord；

（Do　you　remember　how　Leigh　Hunt　Enraged　you　once　by　writing　MY　DEAR　BYRON？）　Books　have　their　fates；as　mortals　have　who　punt；　And　YOURS　have　entered　on　an　age　of　iron。　Critics　there　be　who　think　your　satire　blunt；　Your　pathos；　fudge；　such　perils　must　environ　Poets　who　in　their　time　were　quite　the　rage；　Though　now　there's　not　a　soul　to　turn　their　page。　Yes；　there　is　much　dispute　about　your　worth；　And　much　is　said　which　you　might　like　to　know　By　modern　poets　here　upon　the　earth；　Where　poets　live；　and　love　each　other　so；　And；　in　Elysium；　it　may　move　your　mirth　To　hear　of　bards　that　pitch　your　praises　low；　Though　there　be　some　that　for　your　credit　stickle；　AsGlorious　Mat；and　not　inglorious　Nichol。

（This　kind　of　writing　is　my　pet　aversion；　I　hate　the　slang；　I　hate　the　personalities；　I　loathe　the　aimless；　reckless；　loose　dispersion；　Of　every　rhyme　that　in　the　singer's　wallet　is；　I　hate　it　as　you　hated　the　EXCURSION；　But；　while　no　man　a　hero　to　his　valet　is；　The　hero's　still　the　model；　I　indite　The　kind　of　rhymes　that　Byron　oft　would　write。）

There's　a　Swiss　critic　whom　I　cannot　rhyme　to；　One　Scherer；　dry　as　sawdust；　grim　and　prim。　Of　him　there's　much　to　say；　if　I　had　time　to　Concern　myself　in　any　wise　with　HIM。　He　seems　to　hate　the　heights　he　cannot　climb　to；　He　thinks　your　poetry　a　coxcomb's　whim；　A　good　deal　of　his　sawdust　he　has　spilt　on　Shakespeare；　and　Moliere；　and　you；　and　Milton。

Ay；　much　his　temper　is　like　Vivien's　mood；　Which　found　not　Galahad　pure；　nor　Lancelot　brave；　Cold　as　a　hailstorm　on　an　April　wood；　He　buries　poets　in　an　icy　grave；　His　Essayshe　of　the　Genevan　hood！　Nothing　so　fine；　but　better　doth　he　crave。　So　stupid　and　so　solemn　in　his　spite　He　dares　to　print　that　Moliere　could　not　write！

Enough　of　these　excursions；　I　was　saying　That　half　our　English　Bards　are　turned　Reviewers；　And　Arnold　was　discussing　and　assaying　The　weight　and　value　of　that　work　of　yours；　Examining　and　testing　it　and　weighing；　And　proved；　the　gems　are　pure；　the　gold　endures。　While　Swinburne　cries　with　an　exceeding　joy；　The　stones　are　paste；　and　half　the　gold；　alloy。

In　Byron；　Arnold　finds　the　greatest　force；　Poetic；　in　this　later　age　of　ours；　His　song；　a　torrent　from　a　mountain　source；　Clear　as　the　crystal；　singing　with　the　showers；　Sweeps　to　the　sea　in　unrestricted　course　Through　banks　o'erhung　with　rocks　and　sweet　with　flowers；　None　of　your　brooks　that　modestly　meander；　But　swift　as　Awe　along　the　Pass　of　Brander。

And　when　our　century　has　clomb　its　crest；　And　backward　gazes　o'er　the　plains　of　Time；　And　counts　its　harvest；　yours　is　still　the　best；　The　richest　garner　in　the　field　of　rhyme　（The　metaphoric　mixture；　'tis　comfest；　Is　all　my　own；　and　is　not　quite　sublime）。　But　fame's　not　yours　alone；　you　must　divide　all　The　plums　and　pudding　with　the　Bard　of　Rydal！

WORDSWORTH　and　BYRON；　these　the　lordly　names　And　these　the　gods　to　whom　most　incense　burns。　〃Absurd！〃　cries　Swinburne；　and　in　anger　flames；　And　in　an　AEschylean　fury　spurns　With　impious　foot　your　altar；　and　exclaims　And　wreathes　his　laurels　on　the　golden　urns　Where　Coleridge's　and　Shelley's　ashes　lie；　Deaf　to　the　din　and　heedless　of　the　cry。

For　Byron　（Swinburne　shouts）　has　never　woven　One　honest　thread　of　life　within　his　song；　As　Offenbach　is　to　divine　Beethoven　So　Byron　is　to　Shelley　　（THIS　is　strong！）；　And　on　Parnassus'　peak；　divinely　cloven；　He　may　not　stand；　or　stands　by　cruel　wrong；　For　Byron's　rank　（the　examiner　has　reckoned）　Is　in　the　third　class　or　a　feeble　second。

〃A　Bernesque　poet〃　at　the　very　most；　And　〃never　earnest　save　in　politics；〃　The　Pegasus　that　he　was　wont　to　boast　A　blundering；　floundering　hackney；　full　of　tricks；　A　beast　that　must　be　driven　to　the　post　By　whips　and　spurs　and　oaths　and　kicks　and　sticks；　A　gasping；　ranting；　broken…winded　brute；　That　any　judge　of　Pegasi　would　shoot；

In　sooth；　a　half…bred　Pegasus；　and　far　gone　In　spavin；　curb；　and　half　a　hundred　woes。　And　Byron's　style　is　〃jolter…headed　jargon；〃　His　verse　is　〃only　bearable　in　prose。〃　So　living　poets　write　of　those　that　ARE　gone；　And　o'er　the　Eagle　thus　the　Bantam　crows；　And　Swinburne　ends　where　Verisopht　began；　By　owning　you　〃a　very　clever　man。〃

Or　rather　does　not　end：　　he　still　must　utter　A　quantity　of　the　unkindest　things。　Ah！　were　you　here；　I　marvel；　would　you　flutter　O'er　such　a　foe　the　tempest　of　your　wings？　'Tis　〃rant　and　cant　and　glare　and　splash　and　splutter〃　That　rend　the　modest　air　when　Byron　sings。　There　Swinburne　stops：　　a　critic　rather　fiery。　Animis　caelestibus　tantaene　irae？

But　whether　he　or　Arnold　in　the　right　is；　Long　is　the　argument；　the　quarrel　long；　Non　nobis　est　to　settle　tantas　lites；　No　poet　I；　to　judge　of　right　or　wrong：　But　of　all　things　I　always　think　a　fight　is　The　MOST　unpleasant　in　the　lists　of　song；　When　Marsyas　of　old　was　flayed；　Apollo　Set　an　example　which　we　need　not　follow。

The　fashion　changes！　　Maidens　do　not　wear；　As　once　they　wore；　in　necklaces　and　lockets　A　curl　ambrosial　of　Lord　Byron's　hair；　〃Don　Juan〃　is　not　always　in　our　pockets　…　Nay；　a　New　Writer's　readers　do　not　care　Much　for　your　verse；　but　are　inclined　to　mock　its　Manners　and　morals。　　Ay；　and　most　young　ladies　To　yours　prefer　the　〃Epic〃　called　〃of　Hades〃！

I　do　not　blame　them；　I'm　inclined　to　think　That　with　the　reigning　taste　'tis　vain　to　quarrel；　And　Burns　might　teach　his　votaries　to　drink；　And　Byron　never　meant　to　make　them　moral。　You　yet　have　lovers　true；　who　will　not　shrink　From　lauding　you　and　giving　you　the　laurel；　The　Germans　too；　those　men　of　blood　and　iron；　Of　all　our　poets　chiefly　swear　by　Byron。

Farewell；　thou　Titan　fairer　than　the　Gods！　Farewell；　farewell；　thou　swift　and　lovely　spirit；　Thou　splendid　warrior　with　the　world　at　odds；　Unpraised；　unpraisable；　beyond　thy　merit；　Chased；　like　Orestes；　by　the　Furies'　rods；　Like　him　at　length　thy　peace　dost　thou　inherit；　Beholding　whom；　men　think　how　fairer　far　Than　all　the　steadfast　stars　the　wandering　star！　｛9｝



LETTERTo　Omar　Khayyam



Wise　Omar；　do　the　Southern　Breezes　fling　Above　your　Grave；　at　ending　of　the　Spring；　The　Snowdrift　of　the　Petals　of　the　Rose；　The　wild　white　Roses　you　were　wont　to　sing？

Far　in　the　South　I　know　a　Land　divine；　｛10｝　And　there　is　many　a　Saint　and　many　a　Shrine；　And　over　all　the　Shrines　the　Blossom　blows　Of　Roses　that　were　dear　to　you　as　Wine。

You　were　a　Saint　of　unbelieving　Days；　Liking　your　Life　and　happy　in　Men's　Praise；　Enough　for　you　the　Shade　beneath　the　Bough；　Enough　to　watch　the　wild　World　go　its　Ways。

Dreadless　and　hopeless　thou　of　Heaven　or　Hell；　Careless　of　Words　thou　hadst　not　Skill　to　spell；　Content　to　know　not　all　thou　knowest　now；　What's　Death？　　Doth　any　Pitcher　dread　the　Well？

The　Pitchers　we；　whose　Maker　makes　them　ill；　Shall　He　torment　them　if　they　chance　to　spill？　Nay；　like　the　broken　Potsherds　are　we　cast　Forth　and　forgotten；and　what　will　be　will！

So　still　were　we；　before　the　Months　began　That　rounded　us　and　shaped　us　into　Man。　So　still　we　SHALL　be；　surely；　at　the　last；　Dreamless；　untouched　of　Blessing　or　of　Ban！

Ah；　strange　it　seems　that　this　thy　common　Thought　…　How　all　Things　have　been；　ay；　and　shall　be　nought　…　Was　ancient　Wisdom　in　thine　ancient　East；　In　those　old　Days　when　Senlac　Fight　was　fought；

Which　gave　our　England　for　a　captive　Land　To　pious　Chiefs　of　a　believing　Band；　A　gift　to　the　Believer　from　the　Priest；　Tossed　from　the　holy　to　the　blood…red　Hand！　｛11｝

Yea；　thou　wert　singing　when　that　Arrow　clave　Through　Helm　and　Brain