Crazy Little Thing Called Love Vogt Beth K

download

https://ebookbell.com/product/crazy-little-thing-called-love-
vogt-beth-k-8058788

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

Crazy Little Thing Called Love Sun Tower Series Book 3 Noor Sasha

https://ebookbell.com/product/crazy-little-thing-called-love-sun-
tower-series-book-3-noor-sasha-230916646

Crazy Little Thing Called Love Gambling Hearts Book 2 Jacquie Biggar
Biggar

https://ebookbell.com/product/crazy-little-thing-called-love-gambling-
hearts-book-2-jacquie-biggar-biggar-32816548

Crazy Little Thing Called Love Sun Tower Series Book 3 Noor Sasha

https://ebookbell.com/product/crazy-little-thing-called-love-sun-
tower-series-book-3-noor-sasha-230951020

A Crazy Little Thing Called Death Martin Nancy

https://ebookbell.com/product/a-crazy-little-thing-called-death-
martin-nancy-3454994
Crazy Little Thing Tracy Brogan Brogan Tracy

https://ebookbell.com/product/crazy-little-thing-tracy-brogan-brogan-
tracy-23768452

Crazy Little Thing Diamond Cove 05 Ellie Thornton

https://ebookbell.com/product/crazy-little-thing-diamond-
cove-05-ellie-thornton-48104062

Killer Queen Crazy Little Thing Book 2 Serene Franklin

https://ebookbell.com/product/killer-queen-crazy-little-thing-
book-2-serene-franklin-44830426

Crazy Little Heaven Travels In Indonesia A Journey Through Life

Heyward Mark

https://ebookbell.com/product/crazy-little-heaven-travels-in-
indonesia-a-journey-through-life-heyward-mark-36046702

Crazy Good Interviewing How Acting A Little Crazy Can Get You The Job
John B Molidor Barbara Parus

https://ebookbell.com/product/crazy-good-interviewing-how-acting-a-
little-crazy-can-get-you-the-job-john-b-molidor-barbara-parus-48793260
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 For the Southern Literary Messenger.

APOSTROPHE

Of the Æolian Harp to the Wind.

"Wind of the dark blue mountains,

Thou dost but sweep my strings,
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.

When the gale is freshly blowing

My notes responsive swell,
And over music's power,
Their triumphs seem to tell.

But when the breeze is sighing,

Then comes 'a dying fall,'
Less—less indeed exalting,
But sweeter far than all.

It sighs, like hapless mortals,

For youthful pleasures fled,
For hopes and friends once cherished,
Now mingled with the dead.

And oh! how sweetly touching,

Is the sad and plaintive strain,
Recalling former pleasures,
That ne'er can live again.
Once more thy breezes freshen,
And sweep the Æolian strings,
And again their notes are swelling,
With the rushing of thy wings.

They seem to cheer the drooping,

To bid the wretched live,
And with their sounds ecstatic,
His withering hopes revive."

Alas! and in life's drama,

Howe'er we play our part,
Hope is forever breathing,
On the Lyre of the Heart.

Hope is forever touching

Some chord that vibrates there,
While bitter disappointment
Mars the delusive air.

Alternate joys and sorrows,

Obedient to her call,
Now breathe a strain that's flatt'ring,
And now "a dying fall."

Yet how unlike the measures

Of the sweet Æolian string!
These soothe the heart that's wounded,
Those plant a deeper sting.

Then wind of the dark blue mountains,

Still sweep these trembling strings
Into sweet strains of mournfulness,
With the flutter of thy wings.
 For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. I.

"Every modification of a society, at all lettered, works out for itself a

correspondent literature, bearing the stamp of its character and
exhibiting all its peculiarities."1
1 Sir J. Mackintosh's History of England, vol. I.

It is thus that we see among the simple progenitors of a now

polished race, a simplicity of literature in extreme accordance with
their rude and unsophisticated manners. Yet when I speak of a rude
literature, I am not to be understood as implying want of merit. On
the contrary, the unpruned freedom of thought and unextinguished
fire of feeling, so essential to true poetry, are chiefly to be found
among a people martial and but little cultivated. Nor is this all; we
often discover a beautiful tenderness, breathing of the primeval
simplicity in which it has been nurtured. The dangers and hardships
of severe employment, were sometimes forgotten in intervals of rest,
and at such times, love ditties were made and sung. All natural
beauties—the mountain—the waters of the valley—the dingle—the
mossy wood, peopled by its vagabond essences and strange spirits—
were inexhaustible food for poetry. This love of gentleness was the
stronger for its contrast with the tone of feeling which preceded it.
There are many instances of "the soft" to be found amongst the
mutilated scraps and scattered records remaining to us from the
numerous races usually called Barbarians. Montaigne somewhere
quotes an original Caribbean song, which he pronounces worthy of
Anacreon:

"Oh, snake stay; stay, O snake, that my sister may draw from the
pattern of thy painted skin, the fashion and work of a rich riband
which I mean to present to my mistress: so may thy beauty and thy
disposition be preferred to those of all other serpents. Oh, snake
stay!"

If this had been the song of a Peruvian or a Chilian, it would have

been less singular. As it is, it was probably sung by a savage Carib in
a moment of that rest, of which I have spoken as the season for
"love ditties."

The curious student who searches into the authorities of our

historians, will find that they are chiefly made up of legends
imbodied in the songs of coeval bards and minstrels. This was the
source of historical knowledge to the Danish writers, more than to
those of any other country; indeed the scald was as well a chronicler
as a singer. Nor is this historical foundation to be despised. Those
who sung were most frequently eye witnesses of the occurrences
celebrated in their songs. Men in those early ages had not so
thoroughly learned the art of misrepresentation. Manly openness
was a virtue: cunning was scarcely known in action or narration: or,
if known, despised. Consequently we find that in many or all cases
where other proofs are to be had, the legends of the bards are
substantiated.—The chief source of our information with regard to
the Saxon rule in the island of Great Britain, is the Saxon Chronicle—
a kind of journal or annual, kept by the monks of early ages. This
extends considerably beyond the era of the conquest, and is often
spun into verse. Indeed the first instance of the use of rhyme in the
Saxon tongue, is to be found in this chronicle—I will not however
anticipate my subject by quoting the lines in this place.
The materials with which English antiquaries build up their historical
creeds, are so slender, that the very existence of the minstrel, as
distinct from the poet, prior to William's coming, has been matter of
controversy.—After close examination, I am inclined to side with
those who maintain that minstrelsey—like the feudal system—was
no more than improved by the Normans; that it had accompanied
the Saxons from Germany.

We are told that, Colgrin, a Saxon prince, gained access to his

brother Baldulph, while the latter defended York against Arthur and
his Britons, by disguising himself as a harper.2 Likewise that the
great Alfred stole forth in the same disguise from the Isle of
Athelney—whither Guthrun the Dane had driven him—and that in
such plight he entered the enemy's quarters unhindered. Another
story of the same nature is told us of Anlaff, a Danish chief, who
explored the camp of king Athelstane.3 The learned bishop of
Dromore, after quoting these several stories at full length, remarks:
"Now if the Saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of
their own, Alfred's assuming so new and unusual a character would
have excited suspicions among the Danes. On the other hand, if it
had not been customary with the Saxons to shew favor and respect
to the Danish scalds, Anlaff would not have ventured himself among
them, especially on the eve of a battle. From the uniform procedure
then of both these kings, we may fairly conclude that the same
mode of entertainment prevailed among both people, and that the
minstrel was a privileged character with each."
2 Geoffrey of Monmouth.

3 Vide Rapin.

This proves, to me, that a plant from the same root whence sprung
the Danish scald, grew and flourished in England. This idea is farther
strengthened by the fact that Saxons and Danes were of one and
the same origin—both swarms from the same northern hive—and
that the scald retained by the Danes4 was an important personage
among the Teutonic tribes; and nothing can be more natural than for
men to recur to the customs and usages of their parent-land.
4 Sir W. Temple.

It seems therefore that minstrels constituted a privileged race

among the Saxons. Yet poetry was not meanwhile confined to their
vocal performances. Alfred himself was the author of several written
pieces of considerable merit. Among other ballads, one descriptive of
the battle of Brunnenburgh, is still extant. This battle—fought
between Athelstane and a confederacy of Danes and rebel Britons—
was well drawn in the original, and has been translated by a school
boy at Eton with unrivalled beauty and truth.5
5 Frere.

Song was used likewise on the field of battle. Many instances of this
are on record, but I shall select no more than one for the sake of
proof.

When Harold the last Saxon king, drew up his army against the
combined forces of Tostigg—his rebel brother—and Harold Hardrada,
the Norwegian king, Tostigg rode out upon a hillock, and after the
fashion of the day, began a war-chaunt. While thus engaged, a
herald came from Harold, his brother, greeting him, and offering
reconciliation. "The dukedom of Northumberland shall be given
thee," said the herald. "And what reward has he for my friend and
ally?" replied the haughty rebel. "Seven feet of English ground, or as
men call him a giant, perhaps eight." And the herald finding his
attempt at reconciliation futile, put spurs to his horse. Tostigg rode
backward and forward, tossing his bare sword into the air and
catching it as it fell. Meanwhile his brother's archers came within
bow-shot, and their arrows whistled from the string. Tostigg fought
beside his ally, in a blue tunic and shining helmet. He was yet
chanting to his army, when a shaft pierced his throat and ended
song and life together.
Thus do we see that poetry existed in three shapes; in the songs of
a privileged order, called by the various names of joculator, minstrel,
&c. &c.; in writing; and in the martial chaunts of heroes "bowne for
battelle."—And what were the subjects of these several species of
poetry? The last explains itself. The first two were probably on
martial topics; so we may infer at least from the specimens which
have reached us, and from the situation of England, even for
centuries after its union under Egbert. Swept by the repeated
inroads of the Danes—harassed and ground by the never-ending
feuds of the great nobles, "ye might (in the strong words of an old
historian,) as well plough the sea."—Thus with warlike customs—the
last half of Sir J. Mackintosh's remark, quoted in the beginning of
this paper, being at all times a consequent on the first—literature
grew up in more harsh strength than graceful beauty. Society was
little better than a confederacy for joint defence against watchful
foes. The air was redolent of strife and contention. The "clash of
armor and the rush of multitudes," mingling minaci murmure
cornuum, were imitated on the harp's string, and enthusiastic
damsels sung the deeds of their lovers, or so far forgot the more
tender affection which would prefer the life of its object, to that
object's death and after-honor, as to mingle the io triumphe with the
burial song; thus giving way to the fierce joy, which weakness, when
excited by thoughts of great deeds denied itself, conjures up—the
gaudia certaminis, ever strongest in the weakest. I have already
remarked, that "during intervals of rest, love ditties were sung." We
have remnants enough to know that the Saxon poets were not
forgetful of all gentler feeling, though these too were most often
mingled with alloy. There were not wanting those willing and eager
to embalm the names of the beautiful and great. There were not
wanting bards to sing of the loves of these.

Elgiva, who drew her royal lover from the board where his nobles,
and the sage Dunstan, had met to do him honor. Editha, the lady of
the swan-neck, who recognised the body of Harold though mangled
and disfigured wofully "for that her eyes were strong with love."
These have had their good qualities and misfortunes immortalized by
men, who, in the pauses of the bitterest strife, turned to admire
beauty and unyielding affection, and to lament the evils brought
upon innocent heads.

They sung too of Elfrida, who stabbed young Alfred while feasting in
Corfe-castle—a deed "than which no worse had been committed
among the people of the Angles, since they first came to the land of
Britain." And in this we perceive the alloy, as in their praise of the
masculine Ethelflida, "the lady of Mercia," daughter of the great
Alfred.

I have barely glanced over the Saxon literature from the middle of
the fifth century, to that of the eleventh, without entering into a
careful and accurate detail of the changes which must have
occurred, and which probably by a closer examination than I have
thought needful, might be spread open. One great change occurred
about the end of the eighth century. Egbert—Bretwalda, or king of
Wessex, one of the seven principalities forming the Heptarchy—long
lived at the court of Charlemagne, then the most polished court west
of Italy. He united the seven petty kingdoms into one, and as their
single head, had an opportunity of using effectually the information
gathered abroad.

Several additions were made to this, but the one most worthy
notice, was more than two centuries after. Edward the confessor,
passed twenty-seven years, from boyhood to middle age, at the
court of Rouen; indeed (according to Ingulphus,)

"Paene in Gallicam transierat."

He therefore added to the polish, introduced by his predecessor,

though at so late an hour that the change for the better was
scarcely perceptible, before it merged in the more important one,
introduced by the Norman invasion.

I now proceed to an examination of poetry through ages of

comparative light. Although from the gradual intercourse between
the two nations prior to their amalgamation, no alteration of feeling
or manners had taken place, extensive enough to mark the
"conquest" as a grand and important era in the history of national
customs, still many and subtle changes were produced, bearing in
no small degree upon the subject before us.

The poetry of the Saxons was without rhyme, and the author of "an
essay on Chaucer," says, "without metre." The learned antiquary
must have attached a meaning to the word metre, wholly at variance
with that now and usually received. Metre (from the Greek [Greek:
metron] and Latin metrum) has several meanings, but scarcely
distinct ones: all may be included in that of 'an harmonious
disposition of words.' It is not enough to say that it differed from
prose in being the language of passion. The general rules by which
we judge poetry, are immutable, and equally applicable to that of
Greeks, Saxons, and modern English. Dr. Blair and his authorities,
define poetry to be "the language of passion metrically arranged," (I
quote from memory) and supported so ably, I will not consent to a
halving of the definition. The before mentioned Essayist on Chaucer,
adduces the "vision of Pierce Ploughman" as a specimen of the
Saxon style of poetry. And herein it becomes evident that he
mistakes the meaning of the word metre. For those old lines,
composed about the middle of the fourteenth century, are,
notwithstanding the ancient mode of writing without breaks or
division into lines, beyond doubt capable of being arranged in
separate and distinct verses. I am not without support in the opinion
here given; Dr. Hickes6 maintains that the Saxons observed syllabic
quantities "though perhaps not so strictly as the Greek and Latin
heroic poets." It may be asked how this comes to be at all a
question, since monuments of Saxon poetry still remain by which we
can judge. But it is no such easy matter to judge correctly. Syllables
were accented much at the whim of the versifyer; so much so that
general rules for the disposition of accent are little less than useless.
Add to this the common custom, before mentioned, of writing poetry
and prose alike; and when we remember that the object in view is to
ascertain the number and accentuation of syllables, the wonder will
disappear.
6 Pref. Sax. Gram.

One among the earliest specimens of the use of rhyme in the Island
of Great Britain, is to be found in the Saxon Chronicle. The author
says that he himself had seen the Conqueror, and we may thence
infer that the lines were written in the reign of William Rufus, or at
farthest in that of his brother and successor Henry. It may be as well
before quoting this literary curiosity, to notice a distich in itself
trifling, and only worth noticing as the very earliest specimen of
Saxon Rhyme, on record.

Aldred, Archbishop of York, threw out two rhyming verses against

one Urse, sheriff of Worcestershire, not long after the conquest:

"Hatest thou Urse—Have thou God's curse."

Vocaris Ursus—Habeas dei maledictionem.

William of Malmsbury, who has preserved this precious morsel, says

that he inserts this English, "quod Latina verba non sicut Anglica
concinnati respondent." The concinnity I presume consisted in the
rhyme, and would scarcely have been deemed worth repeating if
rhyme in English had not been a rare thing. It is quite apparent that
rhyme and an improved metre were introduced by the Normans,
among whom composition in their own dialect had been long before
attempted in imitation of the jingling Latin rhythm.

The lines in the Saxon Chronicle to which I have referred, are a

comment upon the changes effected by William. I will set them
down in legible characters.

Thet he nam he rihte

And mid mycelan un-rihte
He foette mycel deor-frith
And he loegde laga therwith—
 He forbead the heortas
Swylce Eac tha baras;
Swa swithe he lufode the hea-deor
Swylce he waere heora faeder,
Eac he sætte be tham haran,
That hi mosten freo faran.—

This may be translated after somewhat the following fashion: "He

took money by right and unright—He made many deer parks and
established laws by which," whosoever slew a hart or a hind was
deprived of his eye-sight—"He forbade men to kill harts or boars,
and he loved the tall deer as if he were their father. He decreed that
the brindled hares should go free."

In addition to these, Matthew Paris mentions a canticle which 'the

blessed Virgin' was pleased to dictate to Godric, a hermit near
Durham.

From this time to the reign of Henry II, which began in 1154, we
find no records of rhyming poetry. In that reign, one Layamon, a
priest of Ernleye, near Severn, as he terms himself, translated from
the French of Wace, a fabulous history of the Britons, entitled, "Le
Bruit;" which, Wace himself, about the year 1150, had translated
from the Latin of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This poem is for the most
part after the Old Saxon fashion, without rhyme, except so far as a
jingle at intervals may be so called. We next, if guided by the actual
records of written poetry, are forced to pass over an interval of 100
years—to the middle of Henry the third's reign. The reasons of this
gap are perhaps these—

The7 scholars of the age affected to write in Latin—which they called

the universal language. The more skilful poets who lived, as is usual
with the race, upon the bounty of the great nobles, out of
compliment to these their Norman benefactors, framed their verse
into the Norman French; while the low and popular singers—then
the only true English poets—left nothing worth preservation. I will
pass on hurriedly through this uninteresting portion of my slight
history of written poetry, to the nearest resting-place, and thence
take a back view of minstrelsy as nourished in the courts of the
English Kings, and principally in that of Richard Coeur de Lion.
7 The poems of this interval have been translated into the English of Elizabeth's time,
when the rage for gathering scraps of ballad into "garlands" was at its full. It is,
however, impossible to distinguish them from the numerous pieces, really French—i.e.
written not only in the French language, but in France, bearing similar date, and
translated at the same time. It is impossible to draw hair lines or any kind of lines
between these; or if possible, needs a more skilful antiquary, than the author of these
cacoethes scribendi.

In the reign of Henry III, we find that one Orm or Ormin, wrote a
paraphrase of the gospel histories, entitled, Ormulum. Hickes and
Wanley have both given large extracts from this, without discovering
that it was poetry. But a close examination will render evident to any
one, with any ear for metre, that the Ormulum is written very
exactly, in verses of fifteen syllables8 without rhyme, in imitation of
the most common species of the Latin, tetrameter iambic. Another
piece, a moral poem on old age, bears date about the same reign; it
is more remarkable for a corrupt MS., from which the only print of
the poem at all common, seems to have been taken, than for any
thing else.
8 This metre is the same metre with that of the Modern Greeks, which Lord Byron
tells us, shuffles on to the old tune: A captain bold of Halifax, &c.

The next interval from the end of Henry the third's reign, to the
middle of the fourteenth century, when Chaucer came upon the dais,
was filled up with a swarm of 'small poets.' These were principally
translators of popular poems from the Roman or French authors,
and their compositions were thence called Romances. They neither
improved on the material before gathered, nor added anything of
value to the store. And so we come to Geoffrey Chaucer—whence,
let me recur to another branch of the subject in hand.
I have said that minstrels were known among the Saxons before the
conquest, and that these were in high repute at the Saxon courts.
That Alfred himself was a poet, and on one occasion, a minstrel. The
Normans brought with them their harpers and troubadours9 and the
profession received a great acquisition of strength and honor. Every
Baron had his own joculator, and we find amongst the records of the
Old English families, items of largesse to wandering harpers. Such
were at all seasons welcomed by the feudal nobles—perhaps for the
same reason that our modern aristocrats of Virginia were hospitable
—from a love of news. Minstrels as news-gleaners—often coming too
from the royal court—were a source of entertainment to the lords,
who, immured in their solitary castles among swampy moors, or
perched on hill-tops almost inaccessible to man, seldom heard other
than an enemy at their gates.
9 Vid. the story of Taillefer—Du Cange.

At the court of Henry I,—to whom Sir Walter Scott refers in those
lines of his rambling epistle to George Ellis—

"But who shall teach my harp to gain

A sound of the romantic strain,
Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere
Could win the royal Henry's ear,—
Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved,
The minstrel, and his lay approved?"

Minstrels and minstrelsy were especially favored.

Beauclerc—the most accomplished monarch of his day, so far as

letters were concerned, became by fellowship of feeling and taste,
the patron of all the caste. The court-fed minions, like the lizard
whose color depends on the species of grass or plant of which it
eats, became of course completely Norman in their feelings. Indeed
the greater number were Normans by birth and education, lured to
the English court by the ever ready bait of patronage; and those that
were not, seeing that these met with favor, imitated them in style
and every thing else. The 'Anglo' might with propriety have been
dropped in Sir Walter's verse just quoted.10
10 It is a melancholy sight to see so exalted a class of human beings, whether from
necessity or not, forever debasing themselves into servile dependency. Even Dante,
whose lament that he had to climb another's stair would seem the outbreak of an
independent spirit, could humble himself before a Guido.

That the six kings following the conqueror were, with an exception,
completely Norman in their habits and predilections, we may easily
discover in the history of English law, traced back to its foundation
among the very roots of the feudal system. It was against Norman
innovation that the independent Barons of the thirteenth century
arose, and held John Lackland in duress until his name was affixed
to Magna Charta—a paper purporting to restore affairs to the state
in which Edward the Saxon left them. It was this same fondness for
French men and French rules that forced from Henry III a signature
to the same paper,—John having evaded his on plea of compulsion.

But, although extremely opposed to those principles of freedom

which Hengist and his followers had brought from the woods of
Germany, and which ages after marked England as a great and
prosperous nation, Norman ideas and sentiments were a southern
sun to the growth of poetry and other literature.

I have mentioned Henry Beauclerc's love for these. After him, in the
struggles of the heroic Maud or Matilda, and in the turbulent reign of
the ill-fated Stephen, neither party had leisure for literary pursuits.
But in the reign of Henry II, love and poetry both received
countenance from that gallant monarch. His amours with Rosamond
Clifford of Woodstock, have been the theme of many a popular
ballad. Richard Coeur de Lion, the knight errant king,11 and king of
knight errants, invited the most famous of the Provencal bards to his
court. Ubi mel ibi apes, and London was soon a theatre crowded
with troubadours warm from the feet of the Pyrenees and banks of
the Rhone. The whispers of the sunny Provencal love-ditty were
breathed upon the rough ballad spirit of an earlier time,—mellowing
that spirit, and adding to its former dauntlessness the gloss of polish
and refinement.—Richard was himself a troubadour; and though at
the present day his deeds of verse would damn a schoolboy, they
were then thought worthy of being coupled with his deeds in arms.
11 Richard was truly a king errant,—for he spent scarcely one out of the ten years of
his reign, in England.

Many romantic traditions have been handed down to us of that

adventurous monarch and Blondel de Nesle, his favorite minstrel. We
read in the records of our ancient chroniclers, a simple tale of the
latter's long pilgrimage in search of the captive king his master. How
Blondel came one evening as the sun went down among the hills of
the Rhine, to the solitary castle of Trifels, where the monarch lay in
a damp cold dungeon. How he seated himself at the dungeon grate,
and taking his harp from his shoulder, began a song which Richard
and he had made together in Palestine; and how the overjoyed king
took up the words as they reached his ear, and chanted to the top of
his full voice in answer. And farthermore, how Blondel returned to
England, and went 'shoonless and unhooded' through all parts of the
land, until the captive's loyal subjects were aroused; and until the
great ransom was gathered together by which those subjects bought
his freedom. Many such stories are told of the time of the chivalric
Richard; and the devoted fidelity of his dependents will ever be a
bright spot on the page of that history into which their names have
stolen, and through which they are now receiving—reward dearest
to noble spirits,—virtuous and stainless renown.

In the reign of John Lackland, the minstrels were the means of

saving the life and fortunes of an Earl of Chester, by stirring up the
rabble, who had gathered to a fair in the border of Wales, to go to
his rescue. This they did under one Dutton, at sight of whom and his
followers, the Welsh besiegers retired from before the Earl's castle.
In the time of Edward I, "a multitude of minstrels attended at the
knighting of his son."

Under the reign of Edward II, such privileges were claimed by this
class, that it became necessary to restrain them by a particular
statute. Yet notwithstanding this, towards the latter part of this
reign, we find that the minstrels still retained the liberty of entrance
at will into the royal presence, and were still remarkable for splendor
of dress.

During the short rule of Richard II, John of Gaunt instituted a court
of minstrels at Tutbury in Staffordshire. They had a charter,
empowering them variously, and bestowing inter alia the right of
appointing "a king of the minstrels with four subordinate officers."

Under the usurper Bolingbroke—Henry the Fourth—the profession

maintained its dignity and importance, and met with favor from king
and noble, notwithstanding the contempt of the stuttering Hotspur.

I had rather be a kitten and cry—mew,

Than one of these same metre ballad mongers;
I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned
Or a dry wheel grate on an axletree, Etc.

Alcibiades cried down lute playing—because, though he excelled his

comrades in beauty, eloquence, and gallantry, in this one little thing
his skill failed him. Percy "spoke thick" and so song did not suit him.
Even as late as Henry VIII, we find minstrels attached in licensed
capacities, to the households of the great nobles. But the profession
was fast sinking into disrepute; and in the great entertainment at
Kenilworth Castle in 1575, a caricature copy of the old minstrel
appeared among the sources of amusement prepared by the gallant
Leicester for his royal mistress.

Thus had the profession completed a circle, and, in name at least,

returned to its primitive state. Centuries before among the Saxons
the singer was called mimus, joculator, histrio, indiscriminately. And
though these words, like parasite, demagogue, tyrant, sophist and
others, bore a respectable meaning at the period of their first use,
the minstrel in the course of time adapted himself to the meaning
which time and change had given them, and in the reign of Elizabeth
had become a mere 'jester.' He turned the circle and went back to
the titles of his progenitors, adding to the ignominy of those titles by
wearing them. An act was at length passed, in the thirty-ninth year
of the queen just mentioned, classing "all wandering minstrels, with
rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars," and ordering them to be
punished as such. From this severe judgment, however, those,
attached by peculiar circumstances to the house of that Dutton
spoken of above as the preserver of Ranulph the last Earl of Chester,
were particularly excepted. This statute was the death blow to the
few remnants of the genuine old minstrelsy.

I can now proceed undividedly in tracing out my slight sketch of

English classic poets and written poetry.

Before I end this chapter, however, let me make a few remarks upon
the spirit prevalent among the English after the conquest.

In the scrap of Saxon poetry quoted above, the reader will perceive
that the chronicler mentions William's severe restrictions upon the
exercise of woodcraft in the wide waste lands of the escheated
manors. Following the same lines farther, we find in the old chronicle
the winding up words, which I will translate from the original. After
remarking that "he forbade men to kill harts or boars," the chronicler
adds, "Rich men bemoaned it and poor men shuddered at it. But he
was so stern and hot that he recked not the hatred of them all."

In consequence of these laws, Robinhoods and Littlejohns gathered

in the matted thickets, and among the oak glades on the banks of
every obscure lake and river, from the Thames to the Tweed. There
was something alluring in the romantic life of an outlawed forester,
and many a tall deer and bristling boar, died on the 'green shawe,'
against whom that law, intended as a shield, pointed the arrow.

Thus sprung up a race of men of whom the ballad makers delighted

to sing—coupling their names with 'Hereward the hardy outlaw' and
the patriot heroes of the ground and trampled Saxons.

That the introduction of Norman manners brought with it more

softness—a fact mentioned more than once—we may discover by
comparing the productions of those bards who in the same age,
sung in the rugged north country, and those who grew up in Kent
and on the Thames. These latter were for years before the Norman's
coming, receiving polish from their neighborhood, while those of
Northumberland retained much of their early rudeness ages after.
The bard who sings of the reyde on which

"The Perse out off Northumberland"

went to be killed among the Cheviot hills, has more roughness as

well as more strength than any of his compeers on the Thames. This
old poem is an important stone in the temple of English literature,
and I will treat of it in due season, as coming within the pale of
English classic poetry. This polish and increased softness introduced
by the Normans, opened the eyes and ears of all to "the soother and
honeyeder" style of poetry. And, indeed, unless Lord Bacon's remark,
—that verse is a better balm than any the Egyptians knew, "for that
it not only preserveth the stateliness of the form and the color of the
face—which the Egyptian preservative doth not—but giveth to the
one tenfold stateliness and borroweth from the rose for the other,"—
be true, their women were passing stately and very beautiful. There
were the three Mauds, all queens and all heroines. There was the
proud yet "fair Rosamond," who forgot her pride in the arms of a
royal lover; and many another fitting sharer in immortality with the
Elgivas and Ediths of an earlier time.
Superstition too gave a tinge to poetry.—The Druids had left their
foot marks upon the soil, and the ancient rites and feelings
cherished in Wales—the last place of refuge for the injured Britons—
still held an undefined influence over the hearts of their neighbors.
This feeling blazed out for awhile, when the partisans of Henry slew
Thomas a-Becket, the "child of love and wonder,"12 before the altar
of St. Bennet. And the murdered Archbishop was doubly canonized,
in the holy ritual of Rome, and in the songs of those whom his death
had made worshippers.
12 Sir J. Mackintosh tells an odd romance of the mother of the celebrated Archbishop,
whom he calls the "child of love and wonder."

But the greatest characteristic of the ballad, as used among the

Norman successors to the Saxons in England, was a love for the
legendary. Britagne—that country lying between the Loire and the
Seine, had been peopled by a body of British emigrants about the
time of the Saxon invasion under Hengist, and these calling
themselves Armoricans, settled quietly down in a strange land. They
retained many of their old British feelings, and when in the course of
time they became nearly amalgamated with their Norman neighbors,
and followed them into England, the old love of country revived and
they sung of King13 Arthur and his knights as champions of their
forefathers. The strange legends of the early contests between
Angles and Britons, were mere clews to the discovery of a thousand
others, wholly unfounded in truth, yet none the less palatable to the
ignorant. This love of the legendary remains to this day among the
descendants of these people, and will, perhaps, never be obliterated.
13 "The words Konung, Kyning, King, Kong, Koenig, and others like them in the
Teutonic languages, denoted every sort of command from the highest to that of a
very narrow extent. It would be a gross fallacy to understand these words in their
modern sense, when we meet them in Anglo-Saxon history."
 For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,—I offer a very threadbare excuse for the publication of the following
verses. They are published "at the request of a friend," for whom, indeed, they were
written. You have accused me of obscurity, and to prevent a repetition of your
censure, I will here add a scrap of explanation. "The Last Indian" is something of a
Salathiel; he has survived his whole race. Stanza VI, refers to the Aztecs and other
tribes long ago extinct, and supposed to have lived once upon a time, among the
higher valleys east and west of the Mississippi. A second and more hardy people,
referred to in stanza V, perhaps drove the Aztecs, as the Huns drove the Goths,
southward, upon the rich regions of Mexico. These dead Mexican tribes are described
on their return—led by a kind of amor patriæ instinct—to their early homes in the
north.

Before ending this scrawl, I would correct an error into which you have fallen with
regard to my signature. "Zarry Zyle" should be

LARRY LYLE.

THE LAST INDIAN.

Once more, and yet once more,

I give unto my harp a midnight-woven lay;
—I heard the ebon waters roar,
I heard the flood of ages pass away.—Kirke White.

I.
I slept beneath a tree one Summer eve,
My couch a bed of blossom-beaded thyme,
My roof the bough which spirit fingers weave,
My slumber-song a brooklet's mellow chime:
I dreamed—and far away thro' space and time,
My liberated spirit joyfully
Forth went—a pioneer well skilled to climb
The cloudy crags and cliffs of mystery.
I dreamed—I speak my dream; and canst thou read it me?

II.
On the jagg'd summit of a mountain range,
More azure than the blue sky, sternly stood—
Like Sathanas of old—a wanderer strange,
Drinking deep grief, as one who meets the flood
Of bitterness in some parched solitude;
Before him spread, in undulations vast,
A Prairie sea, all isled with rock and wood;
And young winds closed their wings above its breast,
As faint bees close their wings when Summer days have passed.

III.
The Sun had come—a weary traveller—
Up o'er the hills of ether, for methought
'Twas many thousand years since Lucifer
Fell from his glory, and, with trial fraught
And leaden labor, Time had weakness brought
To Sun and Moon. Men saw the Sun upcome,
And marvelled at its lustre: Sages sought
That lustre's source, and said "at point of doom
Mysterious fires full oft the closing eye illume."

IV.
Methought a change came o'er the face of earth;
Hill, plain, and hollow shook as with the throe
Of mortal agony. The mountain girth
Shrunk, heaved, then burst asunder. In mad flow
The waters of great lakes foamed, battling through
Far scattered crags; and mighty rocks, down hurled
From mountain tops, laid bare the volcano—
The great volcano! and its flame unfurled,
Streamed redly, wrathfully, above the reeling world.

V.
A voice went forth, far louder than the roar
Of bounding rivers; and the summons broke
The deep sleep of earth's dead. Each burial shore
And tree-robed mound in groaning travail shook,
And giant skeletons from death awoke.
Barbarians seemed they, armed with spear and bow;
And thro' their ribs as thro' the winter oak
Winds whistled; while from bone lips evermo'
Uptrembled hollowly, horn murmurs, faint and low.

VI.
And, from the charnel valleys of the South,
A multitude, vast, vast beyond compare,
Moved darkly onward. Song and shout uncouth,
Betokened their wild joy; while on the air,
Forgotten instruments breathed music rare—
Sweet unknown tunes, as soft as hymn of rills.
The Mammoth and the Mastodon were there,
All yoked;—and then I heard far-groaning wheels:
The tomb had gaped—the dead tribes sought their early hills!

VII.
Amid the groan and rumbling heave of earth,
And noise of waters, came each silver tone.
But ere my wonder ceased, a storm had birth,
And rattling thunder mingled with the moan
And sob of nature. O'er car—skeleton—
A cloud-veil passed and hid them from my sight;
While o'er that cloud, far on a mountain throne,
A city rocked—illumined by the light
Of its own burning towers—fit type of frail man's might!
 VIII.
And then the Sun waxed dim. The red Moon rode
Above the trembling nations, with an eye
Of wrath and anguish, and a brow of blood—
While one by one, afar, in the dun sky
The stars went out, as dew-drops, when winds sigh,
From grass and flower and thin leaf disappear.
Then no man saw the Sun! but still on high
The great Moon rode; and, ever redly clear,
Glared thro' thick fog and mist, till men grew dumb with fear.

IX.
The wanderer looked forth tremblingly, and lo!
A wide winged Eagle on the darkness came.
Her brood had died,—all died! and wild with wo
And reckless wrath, that terror might not tame—
Chasing the swart cloud from her eye of flame—
She sought the summit of that lonely peak.
She saw the Red Man, and with joyous scream,
Claimed fellowship; but to her iron beak
A single death-flash leapt, and wreathed her scornful neck.

X.
Innumerable mounds belched lurid streams,
And poured, in hot black showers, the cinder-rain;
I gazed and saw, as high the forked gleams
Sprang piercingly thro' volumed smoke again,
Earth's wan-faced myriads. From the Ocean-plain
Her living tribes had flown, to seek the light
And safety of that adamantine chain,
In shivering crowds; and wildered with affright,
They toiled in throngs to reach the mountain's farthest height.

XI.
And one, more daring, stood upon the brink
Of a volcano,—and his scathed hand raised,
Dripping with hissing lava. Some would shrink;
And many called on God; while some, amazed,
Stood statuelike: and some in madness seized
With Vampyre tooth, and laid their full veins bare.
And one—a blue-eyed maiden—upward gazed
In speechless wo, while gleamed her long fair hair
And ghastly cheek, beneath that flame's unearthly glare.

XII.
Methought, pale girl, that thou wert of the line
Of her I loved; and tears flowed full and fast,
To see a form so beautiful as thine
In the Volcano's death-light. This soon passed!
Again with strength I heard and saw. A blast
From unseen horn, rang wildly o'er the herd
Of dead and living men: The myriad vast
Wailed moaningly when each the strange blast heard,
And dead and living stood with stony brows upreared.

XIII.
Earth heaved anew, and toppling crags fell down
In darkness. Rivers turned and fled the main—
And galloping—like startled steeds back thrown
By some strong rampart—rushed in fear again
To their far founts, o'erwhelming rock and plain.
The fiend Tornado shrieked and wrung the wood,
Old Earth's scorched locks—until her ory brain
Lay shelterless and bare: while beryl-hued
And bubbling streams, breast, cheek, and cloven brow imbrued.

XIV.
Mine eye waned slowly into wakefulness;
The wild forms of my dream waxed faint and dim;
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com