The Sun.
London, England, 1863-11-30 00:00:00

BULWER'S POEM IN BLACKWOOD,

Under the title of " The Boatman," there is a
very remarkable Poem leading off the new number
of Blackwoods illagazlne for December. It is from
tke indefatigable hallo. of Pisistratus Caxton, who
is apparently just now at his very best—as he is
certainly more than ever industrious. Scarcely
has he completed his comprehensive series of
Essays upon Life, Literature, and Manners,
entitled collectively Caxiontana, upon the which
series we shall take the earliest opportunity
of descanting at length—hardly has he sur-
prised the general public with his whimsical
apologue about the Congress of Fishes convened
by the Pike, an elaborated sarcasm that we have
heard pronounced the cleverest political squib of
modern tin es—when he throws off, in a vein so
totally different, this exquisite allegorical poem of
''The Boatman," a poem kindred to the masterpieces
of Schiller, and worthy of Schiller's genius—an alle-
gory in which the Poet may be said to have epito-
mized the whole pathos of Human Life. But for the
length to which it extends, we should be tempted
to transfer the entire Poem to our columns from the
pages of Blackwood. Although perfectly conscious
that, by dividing it in any way, by breaking it up
into mere fragmentary quotations, we are necessarily
marring the general effect of it as a work of art,we must
nevertheless, venture to give at least some portions
of the opening and of the closing passages of the
Allegory, as a means of affording the reader a notion
of its character as a whole, and, above all, of its
singular felicity as an Allegory of Human Life :
Half sleeping still, I stand among
The silvery, trembling sedges,
And hear the river rolling strong,
Through mists that veil its edges.
" Up, Boatman, up I the moments flee
As on the bank I shiver ;
And thou must row me towards the sea
Along this length of river."
The Boatman rose and stretched his hand,—
" Come in—thou hest far to go ;"
And through the drowsy reeds from land
The boat went soft and slow ;
Stealing and stilly, and soft and slow.
And the Boatman looked in my face, and smiled :
" Thy lids are very heavy; sleep on, poor child!
Lulled by the drip
Of the oars I dip, •
Measured and musical, sure and steady—
Sleep by my side
While from home we glide."
And I dreamily murmar, "From home already I"
I awake with a start—on my sight flashes day.
" So late, and so little advanced on the way ;
Arouse thee, old laggard, and row me faster,
Or never a stiver thou'll get from me."
" When the voyage is over, my pert young master,
Be sure the grey Boatman will earn his fee.
But whether I seem to thee fast or slow,
There is but one speed for the boat I row;
I measure my movements by no man's taste,
Whether he ask me to halt or haste.
Plish, Plash, drop upon drop,
On without hurry, but on without stop ;
The clock on yon turret is not so steady."
" If crawl we must at this snail-like pace,
Ere the river flow curved to the curving shore,
Let me take a last look at my native place.
And the green of the sedges—one last look more.
Where the home of my birth ?
It is blotted from earth ?
Just left, and now lost to my sight already I"
Tauntingly answered the Boatman grey :
" Not a moment ago
Pidst thou call me slow ;
But already 's a word thou wilt often say.
'Tie the change of the shore
Proves the speed of the oar,
Stealing the banks away, stealthy, steady."

Bustle and clatter, and dissonant roar I

The mart of a mighty town,
From the cloudy height to the stony shore,

Wearily lengthening down.
And here and there, and everywhere,
Are gamesters at eager play—
The poor and the rich, none can guess which is which,
So motlily mixed are they.
Not a man but his part in the gaming takes,

Wherever the dice from the dice •boa fall;
Beggar or prince in the lottery stakes—
The beggar his crust, and the prince his all.
And the prizes the winners most loudly boast,
Even more than the gems and gold,
Are the toys which an intent esteems the most,
. Ere he come to be five years old.
A coral of bells, or a trumpet of tin,

Or a ribbon for dolls to wear—
The greybeard who treasures like these may win,
The crowd on their shoulders bear.

Jangle and wrangle, and babel and brawl,
As down from the loud box the dumb dies fall :
A hoot for the looser, a shout for the winner;
lie who wins is the saint—he who looses, the sinner.
Scared away from my side, as they press round the dies,
Still my bride has her part in my life;
For it charms her to share in the gauds of the prize,
Though she shrinks from the rage of the strife.
Flish, splash, drop upon drop,
Never we hurry, and never we stop I
With our eyes in the cast, and our souls in the game,
While the shores that slip by us seem always the same.
Jangle and wrangle, and tumult and brawl,
And hurrah for the victor who bubbles us all I
And the prize of the Victor I've wellnigh won,
When all of a sudden drops down the sun.
One throw, and the favours 0 Fortune I crown I
Hurrah& the victor start with a frown,
For all of a sudden the sun drops down.
" I see not the die—
Is it cloud fleeting by ?
Or is it—it. cannot be—night already ?"
" Tha sun," said a voice, as bleak shadows descend,
" Has sunk in the sea where the river shall end;
Unheeded the lapse of the stream and the light;
Warns as vainly the sea heard distinct through the night ?
Hark ! the whispers that creep
From the World of the deep,
Which I near with the oars, sounding solemn and steady."
" I hear but the winds that caressingly creep
Through the ever-green laurels remote from the deep ;
Though the sunlight is gone, soon the planets will rise."
From the boatman, then, turning, I gale on the skies,
And watch for Orion—to light up the dies.
" What gleams from the shore ?
Hold but one moment more;
Rest under yen light, shining down from the height.
Hurrah for the victor I—but one throw more I"
" No rest on the river—that's past fur thee ;
The beacon but shines as a guide to the sea.
One chime of the oar, ere it halt evermore,
Muffled and dirgolike, and sternly steady;

And the beacon illuming the last of the shore
Shall flash on' the sea to thy murmur--' Already!' "
Then seems there to float
Down the length of the way,—
From the sedges remote—
From the rose-garden bay—
From the town and the mart—
From the rivet's deep heart
From the heart of the land—
From the lips of the bride.
Through the darkness again
Stealing close to my side,
With her hand in my hand—
From the gamesters in vain
Staking odds on the main
Of invisible dies,—
An echo that wails with my wailing and sighs,
As I murmur, " The ocean already 1"—" ALREADY 1"
On glimmer of light
From the beacon's lone height,
One look at the shore, and one stroke of the oar,
And the river is lost in the ocean already I

It is the realisation at last of Coleridge's lovely
notion of some day selecting " A River " as the
theme of A Poem. Only—in Sir Bulwer Lytton's
allegorical poem of " The Boatman" the stream
itself appears but as an accessory, and therefore, so
to speak, gleams upon our attention bat inciden-
tally throughout.