The Christian Scholar :: :: University of Virginia Library

Could we but dive into the Poet's soul,
And see the embryo stirrings of his thought,
Before itself it glasses forth in words,
Or is embodied in some moving tale,
We should there read more deep philosophy
Than in the starry countenance of Heaven.
For in the soul of man there seems to sleep
An image of the boundless Universe,
Ebbing and flowing with its restless tides,
Breathed forth unconscious oft in feigning tales;
As in the shell the echo of the seas
Indwells, and giveth forth its soul in sounds,
So strangely heaving from its winding folds.

On this the sweet creation of thy brain,
O Mantuan Swain, thou hast a halo set,
And crown'd him with a name and character—
But not from prowess, nor stern fortitude,
Nor kingly dignity, nor wisdom known
In council, nor endurance,—but the name
Of Piety; thine own mysterious soul
Betraying, which could find no genial rest

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In aught but aspirations after God.

It is a beauteous picture, from the walls
Of burning Troy seen in the glaring blaze,
'Tween mountains and the sea in hurried flight,
His aged Sire upon his shoulders borne,
His household Gods, and with unequal steps
The boy Iulus holding firm his hand.

And well, great Poet, did thy heart divine
Of messages from Heaven, with trails of light
Dropp'd down to earth—and calling—at whose voice
Conjugal tenderness and home-repose
Are to be cast behind; and yet thy hand
Could not pourtray therein thy better thought,
But falter'd, when the victim's funeral pile
Sheds on the parting ships its lurid glare.
And thou thyself, O sacred bard, must sure
Have turn'd away with heavy cold disdain
From this thine own creation, poor and frail,—
Like thine own Dido who in shades below
With cold averted brow in silence turn'd.
A hero, yet no hero; half a God,
Yet less than man!

For all unequal were the Heathens' thoughts
To that mysterious truth they fain would grasp,
Or to pourtray the veiled lineaments
Of that immortal Face, which should arise

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In genial lumination on mankind.
And hence on this imagin'd type of good
A dreamy indistinctness seems to rest;
No strong ideal of a breathing soul,
No featured countenance of speaking mould
That clings to thought and memory, but this
Like some unreal phantom of a man,
The shadow of a shade in realms beneath,
Or dream that issues from the ivory gate.
Achilles' wrath was stamp'd like fallen man,
Noble in falling and in ruin great;
Great is Ulysses roving seas and lands.
But when the Latian would his pencil dip
In hues of Heaven, beneath his hand came forth
This image, as in water, weak and wan.
It was not found in man to deem aright
Or by his words pourtray lost Eden's Lord,
A form of piety and meet for Heaven,
Unequal by his deeds such form to frame.
When more than that Ideal man would raise,
The Truth and Archetype was given from Heaven,
His Countenance was marr'd beyond all men,
Known for no form or comeliness, but One
Who had no beauty as desired of men,
And clothed with shame and suffering. For to err
Is human, but to suffer is Divine.

Howbeit this the “pious” conqueror

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We honour less e'en than his conquer'd foe.
A conquer'd side lay near the poet's soul;
And secret love will its own impress find,
And gleam through the disguise of outward veils.
As from the head of one, whose bold proud heart
Was smitten with successful wickedness,
Satan all-arm'd came forth, defying Heaven
With nobleness and grandeur, as might suit
A rebel chieftain;—of far other form
Than evil spirits found in hallowed lore.

This Mantuan—this our Daphnis—must we love,
Daphnis, who Pollio sung, the Mincian Swan,
Who sung the birth of Christ in Latian plains;
As if he had o'er-heard the angelic song;
So near hath he approach'd the eternal doors,
Daphnis , in shining white he walks on high,
Wondering at thresholds of the unwonted Heaven,
And 'neath his feet beholds the clouds and stars.

Pollio, Ecl. iv., as in Pope's Messiah.

Sub pedibusque videt nubes et sidera Daphnis.”