# The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems/Erinna

ERINNA.
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
Among the obligations I owe to "The Brides of Florence," and to the information contained in its interesting notes, I must refer particularly for the origin of the present poem. In one of those notes is the first, indeed the only account I ever met with of Erinna. The following short quotation is sufficient for my present purpose:—"Erinna was a poetess from her cradle, and she only lived to the completion of her eighteenth year.—Of Erinna very little is known; there is in the Grecian Anthology a sepulchral epigram by Antipater on this young poetess." A poem of the present kind had long floated on my imagination; and this gave it a local habitation and a name. There seemed to me just enough known of Erinna to interest; and I have not attempted to write a classical fiction; feelings are what I wish to narrate, not incidents: my aim has been to draw the portrait and trace the changes of a highly poetical mind, too sensitive perhaps of the chill and bitterness belonging even to success. The feelings which constitute poetry are the same in all ages, they are acted upon by similar causes. Erinna is an ideal not a historical picture, and as such I submit it less to the judgment than to the kindness of my friends. ​
ERINNA.
Was she of spirit race, or was she one Of earth's least earthly daughters, one to whom A gift of loveliness and soul is given, Only to make them wretched?
There is an antique gem, on which her brow Retains its graven beauty even now. Her hair is braided, but one curl behind Floats as enamour'd of the summer wind; The rest is simple. Is she not too fair Even to think of maiden's sweetest care? The mouth and brow are contrasts. One so fraught With pride, the melancholy pride of thought Conscious of power, and yet forced to know How little way such power as that can go; Regretting, while too proud of the fine mind, Which raises but to part it from its kind: But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this; It was a mouth the rose had lean'd to kiss
For her young sister, telling, now though mute, How soft an echo it was to the lute. The one spoke genius, in its high revealing; The other smiled a woman's gentle feeling. It was a lovely face: the Greek outline Flowing, yet delicate and feminine; The glorious lightning of the kindled eye, Raised, as it communed with its native sky. A lovely face, the spirit's fitting shrine; The one almost, the other quite divine.
My hand is on the lyre, which never more With its sweet commerce, like a bosom friend, Will share the deeper thoughts which I could trust Only to music and to solitude. It is the very grove, the olive grove, Where first I laid my laurel crown aside, And bathed my fever'd brow in the cold stream;
As if that I could wash away the fire
Which from that moment kindled in my heart. I well remember how I flung myself, Like a young goddess, on a purple cloud Of light and odour—the rich violets Were so etherial in bloom and breath: And I,—I felt immortal, for my brain Was drunk and mad with its first draught of fame. 'T is strange there was one only cypress tree, And then, as now, I lay beneath its shade. The night had seen me pace my lonely room, Clasping the lyre I had no heart to wake, Impatient for the day: yet its first dawn Came cold as death; for every pulse sank down, Until the very presence of my hope Became to me a fear. The sun rose up; I stood alone mid thousands: but I felt
Mine inspiration; and, as the last sweep Of my song died away amid the hills, My heart reverberate the shout which bore To the blue mountains and the distant heaven Erinna's name, and on my bended knee, Olympus, I received thy laurel crown.
 And twice new birth of violets have sprung, Since they were first my pillow, since I sought In the deep silence of the olive grove The dreamy happiness which solitude Brings to the soul o'erfilled with its delight: For I was like some young and sudden heir Of a rich palace heap'd with gems and gold, Whose pleasure doubles as he sums his wealth And forms a thousand plans of festival;
Such were my myriad visions of delight. The lute, which hitherto in Delphian shades Had been my twilight's solitary joy, Would henceforth be a sweet and breathing bond Between me and my kind. Orphan unloved, I had been lonely from my childhood's hour, Childhood whose very happiness is love: But that was over now; my lyre would be My own heart's true interpreter, and those To whom my song was dear, would they not bless The hand that waken'd it? I should be loved For the so gentle sake of those soft chords Which mingled others' feelings with mine own.
 Vow'd I that song to meek and gentle thoughts. To tales that told of sorrow and of love,
To all our nature's finest touches, all That wakens sympathy: and I should be Alone no longer; every wind that bore, And every lip that breathed one strain of mine, Henceforth partake in all my joy and grief. Oh! glorious is the gifted poet's lot, And touching more than glorious: 't is to be Companion of the heart's least earthly hour; The voice of love and sadness, calling forth Tears from their silent fountain: 't is to have Share in all nature's loveliness; giving flowers A life as sweet, more lasting than their own; And catching from green wood and lofty pine Language mysterious as musical; Making the thoughts, which else had only been Like colours on the morning's earliest hour,
Immortal, and worth immortality; Yielding the hero that eternal name For which he fought; making the patriot's deed A stirring record for long after time; Cherishing tender thoughts, which else had pass'd Away like tears; and saving the loved dead From death's worst part—its deep forgetfulness.
 From the first moment when a falling leaf, Or opening bud, or streak of rose-touch'd sky, Waken'd in me the flush and flow of song, I gave my soul entire unto the gift I deem'd mine own, direct from heaven; it was The hope, the bliss, the energy of life; I had no hope that dwelt not with my lyre, No bliss whose being grew not from my lyre,
No energy undevoted to my lyre. It was my other self that had a power; Mine, but o'er which I had not a control. At times it was not with me, and I felt A wonder how it ever had been mine: And then a word, a look of loveliness, A tone of music, call'd it into life; And song came gushing, like the natural tears, To check whose current does not rest with us.
 Had I lived ever in the savage woods, Or in some distant island, which the sea With wind and wave guards in deep loneliness; Had my eye never on the beauty dwelt Of human face, and my ear never drank The music of a human voice; I feel
My spirit would have pour'd itself in song, Have learn'd a language from the rustling leaves, The singing of the birds, and of the tide. Perchance, then, happy had I never known Another thought could be attach'd to song Than of its own delight. Oh! let me pause Over this earlier period, when my heart Mingled its being with its pleasures, fill'd With rich enthusiasm, which once flung Its purple colouring o'er all things of earth, And without which our utmost power of thought But sharpens arrows that will drink our blood. Like woman's soothing influence o'er man, Enthusiasm is upon the mind; Softening and beautifying that which is Too harsh and sullen in itself. How much
I loved the painter's glorious art, which forms A world like, but more beautiful than this; Just catching nature in her happiest mood! How drank I in fine poetry, which makes The hearing passionate, fill'd with memories Which steal from out the past like rays from clouds! And then the sweet songs of my native vale, Whose sweetness and whose softness call'd to mind The perfume of the flowers, the purity Of the blue sky; oh, how they stirr'd my soul!— Amid the many golden gifts which heaven Has left, like portions of its light, on earth, None hath such influence as music hath. The painter's hues stand visible before us In power and beauty; we can trace the thoughts
Which are the workings of the poet's mind: But music is a mystery, and viewless Even when present, and is less man's act, And less within his order; for the hand That can call forth the tones, yet cannot tell Whither they go, or if they live or die, When floated once beyond his feeble ear; And then, as if it were an unreal thing, The wind will sweep from the neglected strings As rich a swell as ever minstrel drew.
 A poet's word, a painter's touch, will reach The innermost recesses of the heart, Making the pulses throb in unison With joy or grief, which we can analyse; There is the cause for pleasure and for pain:
But music moves us, and we know not why; We feel the tears, but cannot trace their source. Is it the language of some other state, Born of its memory? For what can wake The soul's strong instinct of another world, Like music? Well with sadness doth it suit, To hear the melancholy sounds decay, And think (for thoughts are life's great human links, And mingle with our feelings,) even so Will the heart's wildest pulses sink to rest.
 How have I loved, when the red evening fill'd Our temple with its glory, first, to gaze On the strange contrast of the crimson air, Lighted as if with passion, and flung back, From silver vase and tripod rich with gems,
To the pale statues round, where human life Was not, but beauty was, which seemed to have Apart existence from humanity: Then, to go forth where the tall waving pines Seem'd as behind them roll'd a golden sea, Immortal and eternal; and the boughs, That darkly swept between me and its light, Were fitting emblems of the worldly cares That are the boundary between us and heaven; Meanwhile, the wind, a wilful messenger Lingering amid the flowers on his way, At intervals swept past in melody, The lutes and voices of the choral hymn Contending with the rose-breath on his wing! Perhaps it is these pleasures' chiefest charm, They are so indefinable, so vague.
From earliest childhood all too well aware Of the uncertain nature of our joys, It is delicious to enjoy, yet know No after consequence will be to weep. Pride misers with enjoyment, when we have Delight in things that are but of the mind: But half humility when we partake Pleasures that are half wants, the spirit pines And struggles in its fetters, and disdains The low base clay to which it is allied. But here our rapture raises us: we feel What glorious power is given to man, and find Our nature's nobleness and attributes, Whose heaven is intellect; and we are proud To think how we can love those things of earth Which are least earthly; and the soul grows pure In this high communing, and more divine.
This time of dreaming happiness pass'd by, Another spirit was within my heart; I drank the maddening cup of praise, which grew Henceforth the fountain of my life; I lived Only in others' breath; a word, a look, Were of all influence on my destiny: If praise they spoke, 't was sunlight to my soul; Or censure, it was like the scorpion's sting.
 And yet a darker lesson was to learn— The hollowness of each: that praise, which is But base exchange of flattery; that blame, Given by cautious coldness, which still deems 'T is safest to depress; that mockery, Flinging shafts but to show its own keen aim; That carelessness, whose very censure's chance;
And, worst of all, the earthly judgment pass'd By minds whose native clay is unredeem'd By aught of heaven, whose every thought falls foul Plague spot on beauty which they cannot feel, Tainting all that it touches with itself. O dream of fame, what hast thou been to me But the destroyer of life's calm content! I feel so more than ever, that thy sway Is weaken'd over me. Once I could find A deep and dangerous delight in thee; But that is gone. I am too much awake. Light has burst o'er me, but not morning's light; 'T is such light as will burst upon the tomb, When all but judgment 's over. Can it be, That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts, Burning with their own beauty, are but given
To make me the low slave of vanity, Heartless and humbled? O my own sweet power, Surely thy songs are made for more than this! What a worst waste of feeling and of life Have been the imprints of my roll of time, Too much, too long! To what use have I turn'd The golden gifts in which I pride myself? They are profaned; with their pure ore I made A temple resting only on the breath Of heedless worshippers. Alas! that ever Praise should have been what it has been to me— The opiate of my heart. Yet I have dream'd Of things which cannot be; the bright, the pure, That all of which the heart may only dream; And I have mused upon my gift of song, And deeply felt its beauty, and disdain'd
The pettiness of praise to which at times My soul has bow’d; and I have scorn'd myself For that my cheek could burn, my pulses beat At idle words. And yet, it is in vain For the full heart to press back every throb Wholly upon itself. Ay, fair as are The visions of a poet's solitude, There must be something more for happiness; They seek communion. It had seem'd to me A miser's selfishness, had I not sought To share with others those impassion'd thoughts, Like light, or hope, or love, in their effects. When I have watch'd the stars write on the sky In characters of light, have seen the moon Come like veiled priestess from the east, While, like a hymn, the wind swell'd on mine ear,
Telling soft tidings of eve's thousand flowers, Has it not been the transport of my lute To find its best delight in sympathy? Alas! the idols which our hopes set up, They are Chaldean ones, half gold, half clay; We trust, we are deceived, we hope, we fear, Alike without foundation; day by day Some new illusion is destroyed, and life Gets cold and colder on towards its close. Just like the years which make it, some are check'd By sudden blights in spring; some are dried up By fiery summers; others waste away In calm monotony of quiet skies, And peradventure these may be the best: They know no hurricanes, no floods that sweep As a God's vengeance were upon each wave;
But then they have no ruby fruits, no flowers Shining in purple, and no lighted mines Of gold and diamond. Which is the best,— Beauty and glory, in a southern clime, Mingled with thunder, tempest; or the calm Of skies that scarcely change, which, at the least, If much of shine they have not, have no storms? I know not: but I know fair earth or sky Are self-consuming in their loveliness, And the too radiant sun and fertile soil In their luxuriance run themselves to waste, And the green valley and the silver stream Become a sandy desert. Oh! the mind, Too vivid in its lighted energies, May read its fate in sunny Araby. How lives its beauty in each Eastern tale,
Its growth of spices, and its groves of balm! They are exhausted; and what is it now? A wild and burning wilderness. Alas! For such similitude. Too much this is The fate of this world's loveliest and best.
 Is there not a far people, who possess Mysterious oracles of olden time, Who say that this earth labours with a curse, That it is fallen from its first estate, And is now but the shade of what it was? I do believe the tale. I feel its truth In my vain aspirations, in the dreams That are revealings of another world, More pure, more perfect than our weary one, Where day is darkness to the starry soul.
O heart of mine! my once sweet paradise Of love and hope! how changed thou art to me! I cannot count thy changes: thou hast lost Interest in the once idols of thy being; They have departed, even as if wings Had borne away their morning; they have left Weariness, turning pleasure into pain, And too sure knowledge of their hollowness.
 And that too is gone from me; that which was My solitude's delight! I can no more Make real existence of a shadowy world. Time was, the poet's song, the ancient tale, Were to me fountains of deep happiness, For they grew visible in my lonely hours, As things in which I had a deed and part;
Their actual presence had not been more true: But these are bubbling sparkles, that are found But at the spring's first source. Ah! years may bring The mind to its perfection, but no more Will those young visions live in their own light; Life's troubles stir life's waters all too much, Passions chase fancies, and though still we dream, The colouring is from reality.
 Farewell, my lyre! thou hast not been to me All I once hoped. What is the gift of mind, But as a barrier to so much that makes Our life endurable,—companionship, Mingling affection, calm and gentle peace, Till the vex'd spirit seals with discontent
A league of sorrow and of vanity, Built on a future which will never be!
 And yet I would resign the praise that now Makes my cheek crimson, and my pulses beat, Could I but deem that when my hand is cold, And my lip passionless, my songs would be Number'd mid the young poet's first delights; Read by the dark-eyed maiden in an hour Of moonlight, till her cheek shone with its tears; And murmur'd by the lover when his suit Calls upon poetry to breathe of love. I do not hope a sunshine burst of fame, My lyre asks but a wreath of fragile flowers. I have told passionate tales of breaking hearts, Of young cheeks fading even before the rose;
My songs have been the mournful history Of woman's tenderness and woman's tears; I have touch'd but the spirit's gentlest chords,— Surely the fittest for my maiden hand;— And in their truth my immortality.
 Thou lovely and lone star, whose silver light, Like music o'er the waters, steals along The soften'd atmosphere; pale star, to thee I dedicate the lyre, whose influence I would have sink upon the heart like thine.
 In such an hour as this, the bosom turns Back to its early feelings; man forgets His stern ambition and his worldly cares, And woman loathes the petty vanities
That mar her nature's beauty; like the dew, Shedding its sweetness o'er the sleeping flowers Till all their morning freshness is revived, Kindly affections, sad, but yet sweet thoughts Melt the cold eyes, long, long unused to weep. O lute of mine, that I shall wake no more! Such tearful music linger on thy strings, Consecrate unto sorrow and to love; Thy truth, thy tenderness, be all thy fame!