Haydn and Other Poems
By the Author of “ Life Below.” New York: Hurd and Houghton.
WITH “ other poems ” one need hardly ever concern one’s self, and we shall not particularize any of these here. But “Haydn ” is a performance which we should treat respectfully, if it had no other merit than the earnest spirit in which it is written. The author has just ideas of the poet’s office, and if not quite a poet yet, •—he is evidently a young man, and our business is not prophecy, —he has poetry in him, and he gets flavors and colors of it into his verse. It is poetry of a grave and thoughtful sort, and the expression is simple and dignified, with fewer lapses into dulness and flatness than we expect in a new author. We do not mean to say that, on the whole, he has made the story of Haydn’s love for the young girl, who becomes a nun that her sister may marry the composer, very interesting ; but he has thought it thoroughly, he has conceived several characters; he has told the tale unaffectedly, with self-control and with self-respect ; and he says things which if they do not greatly startle or surprise, certainly arrest notice. For example, the sisters have been talking together of Haydn, and the one whom he loves says of the one whom he had been intended to marry : —
“ It was strange
With what abhorrence shrank my soul from her
While speaking thus : less from her selfishness
Than her insensibility. Our tastes —
Those dainty despots of desire, our tastes
Are our worst tyrants ; they brook no offence.
I wellnigh hated her. Yet feeling thus
While picturing: her character as coarse —
Have you not noticed at the arsenal,
At times while gazing on grim helmets there,
All suddenly upon the polished iron
A wondrous brightness ? there in its pure depth
Your own face hideous rendered ? So with me ;
Amid harsh outlines of her character
Shone soon its brighter metal; and from thence
Leered back upon my gaze my hideous self! For was not I, the mean, the selfish one ? “
With what abhorrence shrank my soul from her
While speaking thus : less from her selfishness
Than her insensibility. Our tastes —
Those dainty despots of desire, our tastes
Are our worst tyrants ; they brook no offence.
I wellnigh hated her. Yet feeling thus
While picturing: her character as coarse —
Have you not noticed at the arsenal,
At times while gazing on grim helmets there,
All suddenly upon the polished iron
A wondrous brightness ? there in its pure depth
Your own face hideous rendered ? So with me ;
Amid harsh outlines of her character
Shone soon its brighter metal; and from thence
Leered back upon my gaze my hideous self! For was not I, the mean, the selfish one ? “
When she tells Haydn that the priest has urged her to conquer her love for him, Haydn answers : —
“ I would not dare to mould another thus.
Nay, though I knew that I could model thence
The best shaped manhood of my mind’s ideal.
Who knows ? — My own ideal, ray wisest aim,
May tempt astray ; they may lead him astray.
If I, made but to answer for one soul,
Take on myself the governance of two,
I may be doubly damned. ’T is sacrilege,
This self-will which would manage other wills,
As though men were the puppets of a show,
And not souls, restless and irresolute,
In that mysterious poise ’twixt right and wrong
From which a sigh may launch toward heaven or
hell.”
Nay, though I knew that I could model thence
The best shaped manhood of my mind’s ideal.
Who knows ? — My own ideal, ray wisest aim,
May tempt astray ; they may lead him astray.
If I, made but to answer for one soul,
Take on myself the governance of two,
I may be doubly damned. ’T is sacrilege,
This self-will which would manage other wills,
As though men were the puppets of a show,
And not souls, restless and irresolute,
In that mysterious poise ’twixt right and wrong
From which a sigh may launch toward heaven or
hell.”
We find in the poem such thoughtful passages as this : —
“ Our characters
Expand through lifetime as the frees expand.
Each passing season that encircles them
Leaves from its clasp a ring; the ring remains.
So our past deeds remain about ourselves,”
Expand through lifetime as the frees expand.
Each passing season that encircles them
Leaves from its clasp a ring; the ring remains.
So our past deeds remain about ourselves,”
And this : —
“ Do you know,
You women, always will match thoughts to things?
You love when comes a look that smiles on you.
We men are more creative. We love love,
Our own ideal long before aught real.'’
You women, always will match thoughts to things?
You love when comes a look that smiles on you.
We men are more creative. We love love,
Our own ideal long before aught real.'’
And here is a pretty and tender fancy, in the regret of the young girl who is not helpful in her lover’s illness : —
“ Sometimes I leaned above his couch, and grieved
To think that I could do no more than this;
Sometimes I sighed, in thankfulness that God
Would let me do so much. Once, praying thus,
Mayhap, He granted answer ; for I thought
That, even though I might not have her art,
Doretta’s art, at least that I might have
As much, perhaps, as guardian angels have :
For without hands or voices, they keep watch
In spirit only. Still, when sister came,
I thought once more, that, if those souls unseen
Can envy, sometimes they may envy men.”
To think that I could do no more than this;
Sometimes I sighed, in thankfulness that God
Would let me do so much. Once, praying thus,
Mayhap, He granted answer ; for I thought
That, even though I might not have her art,
Doretta’s art, at least that I might have
As much, perhaps, as guardian angels have :
For without hands or voices, they keep watch
In spirit only. Still, when sister came,
I thought once more, that, if those souls unseen
Can envy, sometimes they may envy men.”
We have called this pretty and tender, but generally we feel concerning our author that he is wanting in fineness, or subtlety, or whatever is a better name for access to the reader’s sympathy, and that what poetry he has comes from his head rather than his heart; and it is said not to be Well to begin so. With excellent theories of artistic execution, moreover, he has some faults of versification, and occasionally he sins against taste, as in this case where he mixes the familiar and the poetic-conventional in his diction :—•
“ Your room was dreadfully
Disordered, dear. Our sire just came from it.
He was so cross.’’
Disordered, dear. Our sire just came from it.
He was so cross.’’
But it is right to say that this is not a characteristic sin.