Chapter 57
But how strangely original is the earlier Poet in so cunningly working it into the very matter of his persuasion! Our quotation from Young recalls that in the 'Night-Thoughts' there are evident reminiscences of Crashaw: _e.g._
'Midnight veil'd his face: Not such as this, not such as Nature makes; A midnight Nature shudder'd to behold; A midnight new; a dread eclipse, without Opposing spheres, from her Creator's frown.'
(Night IV. ll. 246-250.)
So in 'Gilt was h.e.l.l's gloom' (N. VII. l. 1041), and in this portrait of Satan:
'Like meteors in a stormy sky, how roll His baleful eyes!' (N. IX. ll. 280-1.) and
'the fiery gulf, That flaming bound of wrath omnipotent;' (Ib. ll. 473-4)
and
'Banners streaming as the comet's blaze;' (Ib. l. 323)
and
'Which makes a h.e.l.l of h.e.l.l,' (Ib. l. 340)
we have the impress and inspiration of our Poet.
How infinitely soft and tender and Shakesperean is the 'Epitaph vpon a yovng Married Covple dead and bvryed together' (with its now restored lines), thus!--
'Peace, good Reader, doe not weep; Peace, the louers are asleep.
They, sweet turtles, folded ly In the last knott that Loue could ty.
And though they ly as they were dead, Their pillow stone, their sheetes of lead (Pillow hard, and sheetes not warm), Loue made the bed; they'l take no harm: Let them sleep; let them sleep on, Till this stormy night be gone, And the aeternall morrow dawn; Then...' (vol. i. pp. 230-1.)
The hush, the tranquil stillness of a church-aisle, within which 'sleep'
old rec.u.mbent figures, comes over one in reading these most pathetically beautiful words. Of the whole poem, Dodd in his 'Epigrammatists' (as onward) remarks, 'after reading this Epitaph, all others on the same subject must suffer by comparison. Yet there is much to be admired in the following by Bishop Hall, on Sir Edward and Lady Lewkenor. It is translated from the Latin by the Bishop's descendant and editor, the Rev. Peter Hall (Bp. Hall's Works, 1837-9, xii. 331):
'In bonds of love united, man and wife, Long, yet too short, they spent a happy life; United still, too soon, however late, Both man and wife receiv'd the stroke of fate: And now in glory clad, enraptur'd pair, The same bright cup, the same sweet draught they share.
Thus, first and last, a married couple see, In life, in death, in immortality.'
There is much beauty also in an anonymous epitaph in the 'Festoon' 143, 'On a Man and his Wife:'
'Here sleep, whom neither life nor love, Nor friends.h.i.+p's strictest tie, Could in such close embrace as thou, Their faithful grave, ally; Preserve them, each dissolv'd in each, For bands of love divine, For union only more complete, Thou faithful grave, than thine.' (p. 253.)
His 'Wishes to his (supposed) Mistresse' has things in it vivid and subtle as anything in Sh.e.l.ley at his best; and I affirm this deliberately. His little s.n.a.t.c.h on 'Easter Day' with some peculiarities, culminates in a grandeur Milton might bow before. The version of 'Dies Irae' is wonderfully severe and solemn and intense. Roscommon undoubtedly knew it. And so we might go on endlessly. His melody--with exceptional discords--is as the music of a Master, not mere versification. Once read receptively, and the words haunt almost awfully, and, I must again use the word, unearthlily. Summarily--as in our claim for Vaughan, as against the preposterous traditional a.s.sertions of his indebtedness to Herbert poetically, while really it was for spiritual benefits he was obligated--we cannot for an instant rank George Herbert as a Poet with Crashaw. Their piety is alike, or the 'Priest' of Bemerton is more definite, and clear of the 'fine mist' of mysticism of the recluse of 'Little St. Mary's;' but only very rarely have you in 'The Temple' that light of genius which s.h.i.+nes as a very Shekinah-glory in the 'Steps to the Temple.' These 'Steps' have been spoken of as 'Steps' designed to lead into Herbert's 'Temple,' whereas they were 'Steps' to the 'Temple' or Church of the Living G.o.d. Crashaw 'sang' sweetly and generously of Herbert (vol. i. pp. 139-140); but the two Poets are profoundly distinct and independent. Clement Barksdale, probably, must bear the blame of foolishly subordinating Crashaw to Herbert, in his Lines in 'Nympha Libethris' (1651):
'HERBERT AND CRASHAW.
When unto Herbert's Temple I ascend By Crashaw's Steps, I do resolve to mend My lighter verse, and my low notes to raise, And in high accent sing my Maker's praise.
Meanwhile these sacred poems in my sight I place, that I may learn to write.'
(_c_) _Epigrams._ The t.i.tle-page of the Epigr. Sacra of 1670 marks out for us their main dates; that is to say, as it designates him 'Collegii Petrensis Socius,' which he was not until 1637, the only portion that belongs to that period must be the additions made in the
LIV. (2) and XI.; and continues with No. XIV., and next LIV. (1); on which he says: 'I value the following as a lovely parable. Mary is not contented; to see the place is little comfort. The church itself, with all its memories of the Lord, the Gospel-story, and all theory about Him, is but His tomb until we find Himself;' and he closes with one which he thinks is 'perhaps his best,' viz. No. I.[34] We too may give it:
'_Two went up into the Temple to pray._ Two went to pray! O, rather say, One went to brag, th' other to pray.
One stands up close, and treads on high, Where th' other dares not send his eye.
One neerer to G.o.d's altar trod; The other to the altar's G.o.d.' (vol. ii. p. 35.)
The admiring critic on this proceeds: 'This appears to me perfect. Here is the true relation between the forms and the end of religion. The priesthood, the altar and all its ceremonies, must vanish from between the sinner and his G.o.d. When the priest forgets his mediation of a servant, his duty of a door-keeper to the temple of truth, and takes upon him the office of an intercessor, he stands between man and G.o.d, and is a satan, an adversary. Artistically considered, the poem could hardly be improved' (p. 241). 'Artistically,' nevertheless, it is a wonder Dr. Macdonald did not detect Turnbull's mis-reading of 'lend' for 'send' (l. 4). Bellew in his Poet's Corner reads 'bend,' which is equally poor for 'tendit.' There follows No. XLII., 'containing a similar lesson;' and finally No. XLV. p. 196, whereof he says: 'The following is a world-wide intercession for them that know not what they do. Of those that reject the truth, who can be said ever to have truly seen it? A man must be good to see truth. It is a thought suggested by our Lord's words, not an irreverent opposition to the truth of them'
(p. 242).
Now that, besides the (relatively) few Epigrams which were translated by Crashaw himself, the whole are translated (for the first time), and now too that, exclusive of longer Latin poems, a goodly addition has been made by us to them, the reader will find it rewarding to turn and return on this remarkable section of Crashaw's poetry. Conceits there are, grotesque as gargoyles of a cathedral, oddities of symbolism, even pa.s.sing into unconscious playing with holy words and things never to be played with; but each has a jewel of a distinct thought or sentiment, and often the wording is felicitous, albeit, as in all his Latin verse, not invariably without technical faults of quant.i.ty and even syntax. I had marked very many for specific criticism; but I must refrain. Our translation is perhaps a better commentary. To my co-workers and myself it has been a labour of love. I must close our notice of Crashaw as an Epigrammatist with some parallels from 'The Epigrammatists' of the Rev.
Henry Philip Dodd, M.A. (1870). Under No. CXVII., 'On Pontius Pilate was.h.i.+ng his hands,' he has this: 'In Elsum's Epigrams on Paintings, 1700, is one on a picture by Andrea Sacchi of Pilate was.h.i.+ng his hands, translated from Michael Silos, De Romana Pictura et Sculptura' (Ep. 17):
'O cursed Pilate, villain dyed in grain, A little water cannot purge thy stain; No, Tanas can't do't, nor yet the main.
Dost thou condemn a Deity to death, Him whose mere love gave and preserv'd thy breath?'
Similarly, under No. LI. 'On the Blessed Virgin's Bashfulness,' he has this: 'Some lines "To the Blessed Virgin at her Purification," by the old epigrammatist Bancroft, are almost as beautiful in sentiment as this exquisite piece (Book ii. 86):
Why, favourite of Heaven, most fair, Dost thou bring fowls for sacrifice?
Will not the armful thou dost bear, That lovely Lamb of thine, suffice?'
Of the exceptionally celebrated, not exceptionally superior Epigram on 'The Water turned Wine,' which somehow has been given by a perverse continued blunder to Dryden, Aaron Hill's masterly translation may be read along with those given by us in the place (vol. ii. pp. 96-7):
'When Christ at Cana's feast by pow'r divine Inspir'd cold water with the warmth of wine; See! cried they, while in red'ning tide it gush'd, The bashful stream hath seen its G.o.d, and _blush'd_.'
Dryden's 'The conscious water saw its G.o.d, and blush'd,' is a mere remembrance of Crashaw.[35]
(_d_) _Translations and (briefly) Latin and Greek Poetry._ It may seem semi-paradoxical to affirm it, but in our opinion the genius of Crashaw s.h.i.+nes with its fullest splendour in his Translations, longer and shorter. Even were there not his wonderful 'Suspicion of Herod' and 'Musick's Duell,' this might be said; for in his 'Dies Irae,' and 'Hymne out of Sainte Thomas,' and others lesser, there are felicities that only a genuine Maker could have produced. His 'Dies Irae' was the earliest version in our language. Roscommon and Scott alike wrote after and 'after' it. But it is on the two truly great Poems named we found our estimate. Turning to 'Musick's Duell,' as we ask the reader to do now (vol. i. 197-203), we have only to read critically the Latin of Strada, from whence it is drawn, to discern the creative gift of our Poet. Here it is:
Jam Sol a medio p.r.o.nus deflexerat orbe Mitius, e radiis vibrans crinalibus ignem.
c.u.m Fidicen, propter Tiberina fluenta, sonanti Lenibat plectra curas, aestumque levabat, Ilice defensus nigra scenaque virenti.
Audiit hunc hospes silvae Philomela propinquae Musa loci, nemoris siren, innoxia siren; Et prope succedens stet.i.t abdita frondibus, alte Accipiens sonitum, sec.u.mque remurmurat, et quos Ille modos variat digitis, haec gutture reddit.
Sensit se Fidicen Philomela imitante referri, Et placuit ludum volucri dare; plenius ergo Explorat citharam, tentamentumque futurae Praebeat ut pugnae, percussit protinus omnes Impulsu pernice fides, nec segnius illa.
Mille per excurrens variae discrimina vocis, Venturi specimen praefert argutula cantus.
Tunc Fidicen per fila movens trepidantia dextram, Nunc contemnenti similis diverberat ungue, Depect.i.tque pari chordas, et simplice ductu: Nunc carptim replicat, digitisque micantibus urget Fila minutatim, celerique repercut.i.t ictu.
Mox silet. Illa modis totidem respondet, et artem Arte refert. Nunc seu rudis aut incerta canendi Projicit in longum, nulloque plicatile flexu Carmen init, simili serie, jugique tenore, Praebet iter liquidum labenti e pectore voce; Nunc caesim variat, modulisque canora minutis.
Delibrat vocem, tremuloque reciprocat ore.
Miratur Fidicen parvis e faucibus ire Tam varium, tam dulce melos; majoraque tentans Alternat mira arte fides; dum torquet acutas Inciditque, graves operoso verbere pulsat, Permiscetque simul certantia rauca sonoris, Ceu resides in bella viros clangore lacessat.
Hoc etiam Philomela canit: dumque ore liquenti Vibrat acuta sonum, modulisque interplicat acquis; Ex inopinato gravis intonat, et leve murmur Turbinat introrsus, alternantique sonore Clarat, et infuscat ceu martia cla.s.sica pulset.
Scilicet erubuit Fidicen,...
Non imitabilibus plectrum concentibus urget.
Namque manu per fila volat, simul hos, simul illos Explorat numeros, chordaque laborat in omni, Et strepit, et tinnit, crescitque superbius, et se Multiplicat religens, plenoque ch.o.r.eumate plaudit.[36]
It will be noted by the student that such word-painting as in these lines belongs to Crashaw, not Strada:
'and streightway she _Carves out her dainty voyce as readily_.
Through the sleeke pa.s.sage of her open throat _A clear unwrinckled song_;.....
closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all, _h.o.a.rce, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their hands_:'
staggers in a warbling doubt _Of dallying sweetnesse_, hovers o'er her skill, _And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill_.....
a tide Of streaming sweetnesse, _which in state doth ride On the wav'd backe of every swelling straine, Rising and falling in a pompous traine_.