the flower of the mind(脑之花)-第4节
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I have followed the usual practice in omitting the last and less
beautiful stanza。
FOLLOW
Campion's 〃airs；〃 for which he wrote his words； laid rules too urgent
upon what would have been a delicate genius in poetry。 The airs demanded
so many stanzas； but they gave his imagination leave to be away； and they
depressed and even confused his metrical play； hurting thus the two vital
spots of poetry。 Many of the stanzas for music make an unlucky repeating
pattern with the poor variety that a repeating wall…paper does not attempt。
And yet Campion began again and again with the onset of a true poet。
Take； for example； the poem beginning with the vitality of this line；
〃touching in its majesty〃…
〃Awake； thou spring of speaking grace； mute rest becomes not thee！〃
Who would have guessed that the piece was to close in a jogging
stanza containing a reflection on the fact that brutes are speechless； with
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these two final lines …
〃If speech be then the best of graces； Doe it not in slumber smother！〃
Campion yields a curious collection of beautiful first lines。
〃Sleep； angry beauty； sleep and fear not me〃
is far finer than anything that follows。 So is there a single gloom in this
…
〃Follow thy fair sun； unhappy shadow！〃
And a single joy in this …
〃Oh； what unhoped…for sweet supply！〃
Another solitary line is one that by its splendour proves Campion the
author of Cherry Ripe …
〃A thousand cherubim fly in her looks。〃
And yet 〃a thousand cherubim〃 is a line of a poem full of the dullest
kind of reasoningcurious matter for musicand of the intricate knotting
of what is a very simple thread of thought。 It was therefore no easy matter
to choose something of Campion's for a collection of the finest work。 For
an historical book of representative poetry the question would be easy
enough； for there Campion should appear by his glorious lyric； Cherry
Ripe； by one or two poems of profounder imagination （however
imperfect）； and by a madrigal written for the music （however the stanzas
may flag in their quibbling）。 But the work of choosing among his lyrics for
the sake of beauty shows too clearly the inequality； the brevity of the
inspiration； and the poet's absolute disregard of the moment of its flight
and departure。 A few splendid lines may be reason enough for extracting a
short poem； but must not be made to bear too great a burden。
WHEN THOU MUST HOME
Of the quality of this imaginative lyric there is no doubt。 It is fine
throughout； as we confess even after the greatness of the opening：…
〃When thou must home to shades of underground； And there arrived； a
new admired guest〃
It is as solemn and fantastic at the close as at this dark and splendid
opening； and throughout； past description； Elizabethan。 This single poem
must bind Campion to that period without question； and as he lived thirty…
six years in the actual reign of Elizabeth； and printed his Book of Airs with
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Rosseter two years before her death； it is by no violence that we give him
the name that covers our earlier poets of the great age。 When thou must
Home is of the day of Marlowe。 It has the qualities of great poetry； and
especially the quality of keeping its simplicity； and it has a quality of great
simplicity not at all child…like； but adult； large； gay； credulous； tragic；
sombre； and amorous。
THE FUNERAL
Donne； too； is a poet of fine onsets。 It was with some hesitation that I
admitted a poem having the middle stanza of this Funeral； but the earlier
lines of the last are fine。
CHARIS' TRIUMPH
The freshest of Ben Jonson's lyrics have been chosen。 Obviously it is
freshness that he generally lacks； for all his vigour； his emphatic initiative；
and his overbearing and impulsive voice in verse。 There is a stale breath in
that hearty shout。 Doubtless it is to the credit of his honesty that he did not
adopt the country… phrases in vogue； but when he takes landscape as a task
the effect is ill enough。 I have already had the temerity to find fault for a
blunder of meaning； with the passage of a most famous lyric； where it says
the contrary of what it would say …
〃But might I of Jove's nectar sup I would not change for thine；〃
and for doing so have encountered the anger rather than the argument
of those who cannot admire a pretty lyric but they must hold reason itself
to be in error rather than allow that a line of it has chanced to get turned in
the rhyming。
IN EARTH
〃I ever saw anything；〃 says Charles Lamb； 〃like this funeral dirge；
except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father in the
Tempest。 As that is of the water； watery； so this is of the earth； earthy。
Both have that intentness of feeling which seems to resolve itself into the
element which it contemplates。〃
SONG （Phoebus； arise！）
All Drummond's poems seem to be minor poems； even at their finest；
except only this。 He must have known； for the creation of that poem； some
more impassioned and less restless hour。 It is； from the outset to the close；
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the sigh of a profound expectation。 There is no division into stanzas；
because its metre is the breath of life。 One might wish that the English ode
（roughly called 〃Pindaric〃） had never been written but with passion； for so
written it is the most immediate of all metres； the shock of the heart and
the breath of elation or grief are the law of the lines。 It has passed out of
the gates of the garden of stanzas； and walks （not astray） in the further
freedom where all is interior law。 Cowley； long afterwards； wrote this
Pindaric ode； and wrote it coldly。 But Drummond's （he calls it a song） can
never again be forgotten。 With admirable judgment it was set up at the
very gate of that Golden Treasury we all know so well； and； therefore；
generation after generation of readers； who have never opened
Drummond's poems； know this fine ode as well as they know any single
poem in the whole of English literature。 There was a generation that had
not been taught by the Golden Treasury； and Cardinal Newman was of it。
Writing to Coventry Patmore of his great odes； he called them beautiful
but fragmentary； was inclined to wish that they might some day be made
complete。 There is nothing in all poetry more complete。 Seldom is a poem
in stanzas so complete but that another stanza might have made a final
close； but a master's ode has the unity of life； and when it ends it ends for
ever。
A poem of Drummond's has this auroral image of a blush： Anthea has
blushed to hear her eyes likened to stars （habit might have caused her； one
would think； to bear the flattery with a front as cool as the very daybreak）；
and the lover tells her that the sudden increase of her beauty is futile； for
he cannot admire more： 〃For naught thy cheeks that morn do raise。〃 What
sweet； nay； what solemn roses！
Again：
〃Me here she first perceived； and here a morn Of bright carnations
overspread her face。〃
The seventeenth century has possession of that 〃morn〃 caught once
upon its uplands； nor can any custom of aftertime touch its freshness to
wither it。
TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS
The solemn vengeance of this poem has a strange tonenot unique；
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for it had sounded somewhere in mediaeval poetry in Italybut in a
dreadful sense divine。 At the first reading； this sentence against
inconstancy； spoken by one more than inconstant； moves something like
indignation； nevertheless； it is menacingly and obscurely justified； on a
ground as it were beyond the common region of tolerance and pardon。
THE PULLEY
An editor is greatly tempted to mend a word in these exq
