The Press.
London, England, 1858-12-04 00:00:00

1198 THE PRESS, DECEMBER 4, 1858.
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tine in:a the room, ever thought of looking at langonr, this tender Italy, lapped in dews of sleep, or more Pull in great thoughts, in little how acute! -------
----
e Queen of Sheba's " white brocade, with de- than sleep—one knows not if it is trance, from which morning He soars a god—now grovels with the brute
ma upon it in gold," on which he was en- sir
hit yet roll the blinding mists awa, or if the fair shedows He toils, but idly toils ; Oblivion's hand .
`. Mr. Ruskin tells us, just afterwards, that of her are indeed the shadesl of purple death.
Vain
out his works—slight figures stamp'd on still,
snowy
alittle above this solemn p sin,and looking beyond *in his hopes burn, his glory-babbles rise,
never satisfied till lie has contradicted it to itsl ramparts, vainly guardian, stands this palace He greatly schemes, but as he schemes he dies •
4' at least three times." We should think dedicated to pleasure, the whole legend of Italy's past his- One moment seen, then gone ; so, darkly pass
'
'planation of the ladies' indifference is tory written before it by the finger of God, written as with Quick flying cloud-shades o'er the summer gass•
tin the fact that they had been dill- an iron pen upon the rock for ever, on all those fronting As this small globe to all the mighty spheres,
" :Bode walls of reproachful Alp; blazoned in gold of lighstenit/ Su Such his brief life-point to eternal years.
'ng oe m Painters," and were upon the clouds that still open and close their unWhat can he boast, fast chained by fate below,
the time had come round for Mr. scrolls in heaven ; painted in purple and scarlet upon the Gnawed, like Prometheus' by a vultu W
tradict himself. "Sharp and mighty missal pages of sunset after sunset, spread vainly What can he boast, plumed Wisdom's
v might be, but their artistic before a nation's eyes for a nation's prayer. So stands this Pursued through mists of doubt, and error s night :
*dent"), not pitched in the palace of pleasure ; desolate as it deserves—desolate in The melancholy truth made clear alone,
smooth corridor and glittering chamber—desolate in That light is veiled, troth's glories half unknown
'ion. FOr, observe what is pleached x•alk and planted bower—lesolate iu that worst Oh ! weep for man, but most lament his pride •
hich we have just referred and bitterest abandonment which leaves no light of memory. This Heaven condemns—this, this the fiends'deridv '
's of imitation are con- No ruins are here of walls rent by war, and falling above
their defenders into mounds of graves : no remnants are
The portrait is not a flattering one, but the flex
place, because not only
here of chapel-faltar, or temple-porch, left shattered or silent extract shall be a pleasing sketch of a rural even
ing, apparently in a " sleepy hollow" :
,ectator from enjoying
lbject, but they ran of SaeCredwheer °h some
and purer
sweet
: n o
left lonelyvestigesare
through here
and paltry subjectx, vicistues of fate and heaven-sent sorrow. An English village : down the drowsy West
The broad-faced sun, like Labour, sinks to rest.
imitate anything here betahe vain apparellings of pride sunk into disho oars
No wind to stir the steeple's lazy vane,
' cat or a fiddle and vain eppanages of delight now no more delightsome.
fThe hill-waters, that. once flowed and flashed in the garden A mellow topaz burns each cottage pane.
y\iv,eiTrkehehaeetsarhidtlheuekine low softly on the lea,
'eke them up ; ' ountams,
.now neckle. sadly through the weeds that en-
The idle peasant smokes beneath the tree ;
Or the Alps. cumber their basins, with a sound as of tears ; the creeping,
le ; flowers, insidious, neglected flowers weave their burning nets about The idle stream just lapses smooth and slow,
And honied flowers are idly bending low.
t not the the white marble of the balustrades, and rend them slowly,
Some spell emits the busy tide of life :
block from block, and stone from stone ; the thin, sweet-
.e powers Hashed the green spot, as if no care or strife
scented leaves tremble along the old masonry joints, as if
-e eon-
with palsy, at every breeze ; and the dark lichens, golden Could e'er bring discord to a scene so calm,
Where earth looks meek content, and heaven ii Lem +s, or and grey, make the footfall silent in the path's centre.
'arts And now, in a different style, the burning of
Such a description as the foregoing,—which is
Moscow :
~ not merely a catalogue of gleaming snows, blue '
Hark to the cry of fire !—mad voices shout ;
skies, and spreading groves, such as any word- bike
vault and
vengeance, red•tongued flames break re
painter in prose will turn you out at five minutes' Ihissild,
thdoemrues,ahndofcoanyrainegfrofzit street to street:
'totice, but is a picture interpenetrated with the
•ht of thought and the reflected glow of historic And oft, 'mid some dread pause, with sudden flash,
ing, i 9 not to be met with every day. Bell-laden, burning towers, down tottering, crash •
O'er works of Art, o'er treasures none may Mr.
ing of this sort would be sufficient to redeem
m weeps a red-surging sea, the fiery wave.
ore onesidedness and perverseness than
SDestruction holds high carnival, and Fear
in Mr. Ruskin's Address, and, taken Mutters her charm, and shakes her hell-locks here.
vith the broad views and brilliant sug- These extracts may serve to give a spice of Mr.
by which it is actually pervaded, it Michell's quality, and to stimulate or satisfy the
the effect of attracting to its pages
curiosity of the general reader.
artistic appreciation or high lite-
2. Mr. Robertson plaintively bewails his hard
lot in lacking alike "the soberness for prose, the
" soul for poesy." In this he resembles the
'oem, in Seven Books. By bourgeois gentilhomme who had been speaking
London : Tcgg and Co. prose all his life without knowing it. So Mr.
with Other Poems. By
Robertson writes excellent prose, though by
breaking the continuity of his words he has been
Indon : Seeleys. led to imagine that he was wreathing chaplets of
of music, a few brief verse—the only trace of imagination, by the
`en conjure up dim, way, that we have been able to detect in hi
the past, so mdis- wide-margined pages. Let the reader judo
ly allude to it as between us :
motion. Very And Samuel rode upon an ass, and went. He wet
"8 in glancing heifer with him, for he feared lest Saul should learn di,
tothepleao- cause for which be went, and slay him ; so be Parr'.
se him f
with. himself to veil his secret errand with the mask I,
startling Jsauedahriticetilleadntha onean
hdis
HwasypashesewdeAte tceitywohferethethieebsoziteu
task to the olive-crowned hill, and saw the stream of Kelm
very flowing round the sides of Sion—Chemosh was being war
ions shipped in the vale—and came among the bare and drew;
"se hills of Bethlehem, where shepherds watched their !bait
,7 and drank their sour milk on the bleak hillsides.
If this be poetry, then are we also a poet, and
perchance, one fine morning may "hang white
.on some lone tree, and die." Or do anachrow
is constitute poesy ? In that case, indeed, Mr
ertson may assert something like a claim to
• fancy, for he makes Eliah thus hold forth
nel :
said, ' Thou talk'st not with a soy :
',e eldest of my father's house ;
I reared in chapels among priests
-n, doing always the same things,
'amp with princes and with knights,
high arguments of state."
fair exercise of poetic licen,c
'ought of an ordinary mint
mg verse in the mouth
1 in the camp,
'B,
'ons tramp
ts,
od,
ik,
of blool,
'llith portra i
T I the min
high-lows
Cause thi
line.-
,me,
11,y
I