DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL

Otago Witness, Issue 1834, 14 January 1887, Page 34

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL

(Concluded.)

Seldom has as tender and yet powerful an appeal for an erring fellow mortal been shaped by human lips, as that contained in the poem "Jenny." If but a woman's heart might «cc Such erring heart unerring/y For once ! But that can never be.

Like a rose shut in. a book In which pure women maj* not look, For ita blue pages claim control To crush the flower within tho soul ; Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings, Pale as transparent psyche-wings, To the vile text, are traced such things As might make lady's cheek indeed More than a living rose to read. Yet atill it keeps such' faded show lit when 'twas gnthprcd lunjrsigo. That the crushed petal's lovely grain, The sweefcnesi of the sanguine- atnin, Seen of a woman's eyes must uiaWe Her pitying heart, so prono to ache. Love roses better tor its sake. What has been done here ? How atone Great God, for this which man has done?

The splendid ballad " Sister Helen" is rich in power and pathos. With what terrible interest \ve watch the melting away' of the waxen effigy whoso destruction involves that of two souls ! •' Ah ! what white thing at the door has crossed, Sister Helen ? Ah : what is (his that aigln in the iront ?" " A soul that'a lost, as mine is !o.ss. ' • Little brother!" " The Stream'ti Secret," already referred to, abounds in picturesque images and strong passages ; — She is far away Now ; nor the houis'of night grown hoar, Bring yet to me. long gazing trom the door, The wind-ttirred robe of roatate gray And rose-crown of the hour that leads, the way, When we shall meet once more.

" O, sweet her bending grace, Than when I kneel beside her feet ; And sweet her eyes o'erlianging heaven ; and sweet The gathering folds of her embriide. ' As in the dim grove When the rains cease that hushed them long. Mid glistening boughs the apng-b'rds wake to song. So from our hearts deep-shrined in love The quivering notes phall throng," * The little poem "Sudden Light"' describes a sensation familiar to most :- -

' I t have been here before, Bnfc vrhonor how I cannot tell. I know tho£r«ss beyond the door, 'Die sweet keen t>nie!!. The sighing sound, the lights around the shore, You have been mine before.— ,v . ■ How lonj; ago, I mav.uot.fyiow ;^ „ , But jiißlwhenat that s"«-allow*s"tW.r Ytjur neck turned

' Some veil did fall, I knew it all of yore. AmoEg the tber lyrics, " A little while "

•nd " Woodspurge," are worthy of notice. "The Sea-limits" will awaken' an'ccho in most hearts: — •■ ' ' Consider the sea's lisMets chiruo— Time's self it is made audible— The murmur of the earth's own ihell.

Listen alone beside the sea, Listen alone among the woods ; Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee ; Hark : whpre the murmurs of thronged men Surge, and sink hack, J and surge again, — ' i . Still tlie.one voice »f 'wave 1 and tree. ' » ■'' ■ Gather a shell from the strown beach And listen at its lips : th^y sigh « The same desire and mystery, The echo of the whtle sea's speech. To quote from the matchless '.' Song of the Bower " would be like plucking a leaf from a rose to show its quality. The poem must be read in its entirety. Barely have the resources of the English language been arrayed in such dazzing profusion in so small a compass. The impression produced by hearing the poem well read can ©nly be compared to that caused by the vibration of a full-toned bell ; it fairly rings in one's ears. Unquestionably the best of the few translations published with the first volume of Rossetti's poems is " The Ballad of Dead Ladies," from Villon, 1450:-- . i Tell me now in what hidden way i« ' ■ ' Lady Flora, , the lovely Komsn.? /, '■Where's Hipparohia, aud where is Thais ? , Neither of them the fairer woman' • . Where is Echo ? beheld of no manOnly he»rd on river and mere — , She, whose beauty was more than human f Bufc where are the snows of ye»ter-year ? The fragment from Sappho is exquisitely rendered. Like the sweet apple which reddem upon the top; moit bough, , A-top on the topmost twig— which the pluckers forget, somehow,— Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get

it til I now. Like the wild hyacinth flower which oa the hill is found, , Which the passing feet of the shepherds for over tear and wound, ' , .' ■ . Until the purple blosiom is trodden into the ground: Some very fine sonnets are grouped together as "sonnets for pictures." The sestette from the one named " Mary Magdalene" is particularly impressive, and " Mary's Girlhood " is fall of grace. As might be expected, the sonnets which treat of subjects which had eng-aged the author's pencil are of a very high order of merit from a purely artistic point of view. Among the few fugitive sonnets published in the first volume— would that there were more !— ihat suggested' by the "Vita Nuova " of Dante, must be accorded first place, in spite of all the admiration that has been lavished on. "The Monochordon." ' The latter sonnet describes, or rather hints at, the sensations awakened by music with ' which on© is, thoroughly in accord :•— Oh ! what is this that know* the road I cams, „ | The flame-turned cloud! the cloud returned. to'flamb, - The lifted shifted Bteeps and all the' way? ' : ' That draws round me at last this wind-* warm «pace An'd'in regenerate rapture turns ray face , >, , ; 'Upoh the dovjous coverts of dismay f '. '. ■ In another strain is.tke'." Farewell to the Glen":— ' '. ' '. \ •..•'■■ Sweet stream-fed glen, why say. farewell to the* ' Who far'st »o well and nud'st for ever smooth The biow cf Time where man may find do ruth ? And yet, farewell ! for better shnlt thou fare , ; -. When children bathe aweet faces'in.thy flow And happy lovers blend sweet'shadows there In houra to come, than when au hour ago ' Thine echoes had but one man's sigh to bear, And thy trees whispered what he feared to know. Quite unique among Kossetti's work, is the glimpse at the everyday world conveyed to us in the sonaet "On the refusal of aid between Nations."

For any wrongful blow, No man not stricken asks, " I would be told Why thou dost thus." bufc lu6 heart whispers then "He Is he, I am I?" As this paper has already exceeded the limit intended for it, I shall do no more than allude briefly to the volume of poems published in the year previous to Rossetti's death. I have purposely avoided any reference to the sonnets comprised in the " House of Life," in the latest volume, although mostof them appeared in the' one we have been considering — "Rose-Mary" is the most elaborately wrought of all Rossefcti's ballads, and dealing, as it does, with the magic power of a talisman, affords ample scope for the play of the imaginative qualities with which he was so highly gifted. The "White Ship,'-' gives a graphic and forcible account of the shipwreck of the prince whose sire h never smiled again." " The King's tragedy,? considered by many critics as Rossetti's greatest poem, also deals with history ; the subject is tho midnight murder of James I of Scotland, so distinguished as poet, musician, warrior, statesman, and sovereign. His reply to the ancient beldame's warning o£ impending danger is characteristic of the man :.-» The day when I must die, That day", by water or fire or air, My feet shall fall in the destined snare.

Wherever my road may lie. Whither his ill-starred road led, is draraati- 1 cally told in the poem : the loving converse so rudely disturbed by the clang of the assassin's arms ; Kate 'Barlass's heroism in barring the door with her arm to give "the monarch time to gain the friendly shelter of a secret vault ; the fruitless search,, and departure of Graham and his band of butchers ; their return and ' discovery of their victim; and his heroic defence and death. The lyrics in this later volume have all more or' less an undertone of sadness for his' lost love, softened only by the anticipation of a reunion' hereafter in the

Home where heavy earth Melts to bright air that breathes no pain

The sonnets on " Winter ■ and " Spiing gave faithful pictures of the scenes depicted. That entitled " The Hill Summitt " is striking : it tells how Ihft poet has wasted the day in climbing- the hill

And now that I have ci imbed nml won this

height I must tread downward through the sloping shad p. And travelthe bewildered tracks till niprht . iitsti for this hour I still n)*y here be staged, And see the gold air and the silver fade,- • And the last bird fly Into the last light. Although doubtless many readers have, experienced an .occasional, feeling of regret" that'so much of KossettiV'wofk is veiled in an obscurity that requires a certain amount of study to penetrate, yet few, I think, who

have learndd* to love his poetry- would wish it to be other than it is. The ssudy demoted to it,is amply repaid, the bower sweet and refreshing when once the maze has been found and followed. The word-painting may seem too brilliant at- the first glance, but after we have grown accustomed to the strong lights and shadows, and dazzling contrasts, our impressions are pleasingly modified, and we recognise the hand and touch of a supreme artist.

To any lover of poetry who has not found a full measure of satisfaction in these poems, I would say : Bearing in mind the conditions of the poet's training, and the sad circumstances of his life, and alert to catch the echo of an inner and deeper music vibrating through the sonorous floy? of his verse, as the JEolian harp amid the storm, try the effect of a closer intercourse with him ; and if his poems do not gain on your regard with more, intimate acquaintance, your experience will be very different from mine. •

J. S. B.