There, age by age, shall youth, with musing brow, Still on the earth, while forests pass away.' (Book xi.) The Bard passes with his harp into the midst of the despairing multitude. His song, rising from melancholy beauty to terrific pictures of misery, and invocation of the free and glorious dead, swells at last into the battle-hymn of the Cymrian race. It kindles a universal enthusiasm, which is next communicated to the chiefs. As the scaling-ladders touch the walls, the Cymrians pour from the gates; and the invading host is driven down the valley. 'And ever in the van, with robes of white And ivory harp, shone swordless Caradoc! And ever floated, in melodious might, The clear song, buoyant o'er the battle shock; The Cymrians recoil. Then But the success is short-lived. Caradoc announces the prophecy which Merlin had revealed to him. Their land is rescued, if a bard shall be slain in the battle, and if his countrymen shall bury him on the spot where he fell. The grave is to be Caradoc's own; and, to fulfil the prophecy, he dashes, at headlong speed, into the heart of the enemy's ranks, where the ghastly standard floated over the head of the Teuton king. Wrench'd from the heathen's hand, one moment bow'd Then from a dumb amaze the countless crowd - Swept, and the night as with a sudden sun Leapt from the selle each paladin and knight; * * * They flag-they falter-lo, the Saxons fly!- (Book xi.) To Arthur, whom we left entranced in the Druidic ruins, the soul of Caradoc now appears, and leads him in a vision to the completion of his last adventure. In the description of it, there is, we fear, as much, at least, of mysticism as either of poetry or of philosophy. For our own part, perhaps by reason of our Saxon dulness, we fail to find firm ground, either in the Celtic ghost's lessons on theology, or in the sweetly musical dialogue that ensues. However, when the apparition leaves Arthur, we begin again to recognise the poetic version of nature and reality. All dark above-lo! at his feet reposed Beneath the Brow's still terror o'er it bowed, With eyes that lit the gloom thro' which they smiled, A Virgin shape, half woman and half child!" This, at least, has been more than a vision. For, when the dreamer awakes, the maiden lies sleeping at his feet; and her eyes open as he gazes on her. Words cannot paint thee, gentlest cynosure Of all things lovely, in that loveliest form * "And Arthur looked, and saw the Dove no more : * their parting ray On Arthur's brow the faithful memories leave; Whatever other characters may have been borne by the Maiden of the Tomb, she is now speedily recognised as the lost daughter of the Mercian king. A few incidents, which we cannot take time to analyse, restore her to her father; and this restoration brings on a crisis, in which, and not till then, the king's third adventure is completely accomplished. Fame has been won in the glimmering fairy garden, and Freedom amidst the fabulous darkness of the world of winter: Happiness is only to be gained by acts performed in the broad daylight of actual and human life. If we pass hastily over the closing scenes of the story, we are doing as the poet does-rather perhaps than as he would bid us. In the twelfth and last Book, event presses upon event, actors crowd each other: all is rapidity and hurry. Without doubt this concentration of interest is designed. It is the rapid bursting of the flower-bud from its sheath, after months of slow growth, the issuing of long-gathering impulses into quick and decided action, when impulse has become irresistible. For poetic musing there is no leisure, in the crisis of a mighty dramatic entanglement. Yet, if our own feelings are a fair test, this sudden accumulation of actors and acts is unfavourable to the vividness of impression which the work should leave upon the mind at its close. The poet's step, epically stately even in quick march, becomes unsteady when he accelerates his pace to a run. His figures stand out brilliantly from the canvass when he colours them carefully, and relieves them by deep light and shade in the background; but their outline is hardly strong enough to command the eye powerfully, in the rapid sketch of moving groupswhere the landscape is wanting. Our imagination, prepossessed by the romantic loveliness and unearthly terrors which have been so long floating before us, requires a more deliberate and more formal communication, to grasp completely and distinctly the sterner image of the great national struggle. We still dream of the mountain-lake as we stand on the breach of Carduel; the dead Ægle has become dearer to us than even the soothing Dove; and while Genevieve herself, the crowning prize of the chivalrous toils, becomes but faintly known to us in her human character, it costs somewhat too great an effort to combine that character, in fancy, with the touching attributes which have idealised her mythological form. Yet the warlike and tragic events, which lead to the catastrophe of victory and reconcilement, are painted with equal picturesqueness and spirit. The book opens, too, with a very beautiful strain of imaginative reflection: 'Flow on, flow on, fair Fable's happy stream, Hold yet thy Sabbat, thou melodious spell! Charm the high Mage of Druid parable, Though me, less fair, if less familiar ways, The flowers afar perfume the virgin sod: The simplest leaf in fairy gardens cull; Soon lose the tints Hesperian Fancy weaves; And haunted forests shed their murmurous leaves; And winter clasp the world-as life the heart!' Fierce debate has raged in the Saxon camp. The Heathen priests, performing gloomy rites of divination, have proclaimed that the Teutonic host can be saved only by the sacrifice of a Christian virgin. Hardly has the prophecy been announced, when Genevieve rushes into her father's arms. A vowing her faith, she is instantly claimed from Crida by the priests; and, after a short struggle, the superstitious old man abandons her to them. The bloody offering, however, is scornfully opposed by Harold, who had been spared by Lancelot in the battle, and to whom, by Merlin's command, his daughter Genevra had been restored. He extorts a consent that the sacrifice shall be deferred till he again attempts to storm the walls. The two maidens are left in Odin's temple, under the guard of the priests. In the battle which ensues, the Saxons, encountered both from within the city and from without, are defeated at all points. Arthur himself, guided by a message from Merlin, directs his attack on the centre of the Mercian camp, where the shrine of Odin stands. He reaches the place, just as the chief priest, with his knife drawn to slay Genevieve, has been struck down by an arrow from Faul, the king's Aleman convert. Arthur's sword, lifted over the fallen Crida, is arrested by the Saxon's kneeling daughter. The last resistance is offered by the brave and generous Harold, who, when all is lost, offers to retreat on honourable terms. The Cymrian king instantly accepts the proposal. Then, on the prompting of Merlin, comes that double plighting of hands, towards which the love-scenes had been visibly tending. It takes place with frank acquiescence from Harold,-with a proud consent slowly wrung from Crida. Out of Arthur's marriage with Genevieve is to arise, in the slow course of ages, that permanent reconciliation and fusion of the two races, which the poet desires to indicate as the historical issue of the events he has related. There flock the hosts as to a holy ground, There, where the Dove at last may fold the wing ;- Fair as in fable stands the Dragon King— Below the Cross, and by his prophet's side, What lutes made joyaunce sweet in jasmine bowers, (Close of Book xii.) In looking back on the manner in which we have introduced this elaborate poem to our readers, we find that we have, almost unconsciously, handled it as if it had been a work which had already been acknowledged as worthy of a permanent place in literature, and the study of which we desired merely to recommend and facilitate. A mode of treatment like this implies a high estimate of the value of the work; and such an estimate we have no hesitation in expressing. The author is, we think, right in believing this to be the least perishable monument of his genius. Not only do we confidently pronounce it to be the most vigorous and original poem that has lately appeared among us; but, while feeling the uncertainty of all critical vaticinations, we regard it as not only worthy, but likely, to take its place among those fine though not faultless performances, which will hereafter represent the poetical literature of England in the first half of the nineteenth century. The poet, bringing to his task powers in their full maturity, and long and variously exercised, has not contented himself either with telling a pathetic love-tale, or with weaving together effusions of lyric emotion. He has conceived the bold design of constructing, out of materials wonderfully varied, a symmetrical and powerful work of epic art: and, in the poem thus produced, he has proved himself to possess, not only the genuine feeling and imagination of the poet, but also that which is rarer and higher still, the deep thoughtfulness of the poetic artist. In welcoming thus cordially, from an author of established reputation, a valuable addition to the poetical treasures of our language, we are not entitled only, but bound, to judge the work, in its details, by a standard much more severe than that which we might apply, if we were encouraging a young aspirant to repeat a promising effort, or consoling a writer already successful, for a new attempt in which he had failed. We must say, then, that there are in King Arthur' many things which we cannot but consider as faults; faults, too, entering deeply |
