a royal poet-第2章
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schooled in adversity; and reared in the company of his own
thoughts。 Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts; or to
meditate their minds into poetry; and had James been brought up amidst
the adulation and gayety of a court; we should never; in all
probability; have had such a poem as the Quair。
I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem which
breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation; or which
are connected with the apartment in the tower。 They have thus a
personal and local charm; and are given with such circumstantial
truth; as to make the reader present with the captive in his prison;
and the companion of his meditations。
Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit; and
of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the poem。 It
was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night; the stars; he says;
were twinkling as fire in the high vault of heaven: and 〃Cynthia
rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius。〃 He lay in bed wakeful and
restless; and took a book to beguile the tedious hours。 The book he
chose was Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy; a work popular among
the writers of that day; and which had been translated by his great
prototype Chaucer。 From the high eulogium in which he indulges; it
is evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison: and
indeed it is an admirable text…book for meditation under adversity。 It
is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit; purified by sorrow and
suffering; bequeathing to its successors in calamity the maxims of
sweet morality; and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning; by
which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life。 It
is a talisman; which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom; or;
like the good King James; lay upon his nightly pillow。
After closing the volume; he turns its contents over in his mind;
and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune;
the vicissitudes of his own life; and the evils that had overtaken him
even in his tender youth。 Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to
matins; but its sound; chiming in with his melancholy fancies; seems
to him like a voice exhorting him to write his story。 In the spirit of
poetic errantry he determines to comply with this intimation: he
therefore takes pen in hand; makes with it a sign of the cross to
implore a benediction; and sallies forth into the fairy land of
poetry。 There is something extremely fanciful in all this; and it is
interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the
simple manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are
sometimes awakened; and literary enterprises suggested to the mind。
In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the peculiar
hardness of his fate; thus doomed to lonely and inactive life; and
shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world; in which the
meanest animal indulges unrestrained。 There is a sweetness; however;
in his very complaints; they are the lamentations of an amiable and
social spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind and
generous propensities; there is nothing in them harsh nor exaggerated;
they flow with a natural and touching pathos; and are perhaps rendered
more touching by their simple brevity。 They contrast finely with those
elaborate and iterated repinings; which we sometimes meet with in
poetry;… the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of
their own creating; and venting their bitterness upon an unoffending
world。 James speaks of his privations with acute sensibility; but
having mentioned them passes on; as if his manly mind disdained to
brood over unavoidable calamities。 When such a spirit breaks forth
into complaint; however brief; we are aware how great must be the
suffering that extorts the murmur。 We sympathize with James; a
romantic; active; and accomplished prince; cut off in the lustihood of
youth from all the enterprise; the noble uses; and vigorous delights
of life; as we do with Milton; alive to all the beauties of nature and
glories of art; when he breathes forth brief; but deep…toned
lamentations over his perpetual blindness。
Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice; we might
almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy reflection were
meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story; and to
contrast with that refulgence of light and loveliness; that
exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song; and foliage and flower;
and all the revel of the year; with which he ushers in the lady of his
heart。 It is this scene; in particular; which throws all the magic
of romance about the old Castle Keep。 He had risen; he says; at
daybreak; according to custom; to escape from the dreary meditations
of a sleepless pillow。 〃Bewailing in his chamber thus alone;〃
despairing of all joy and remedy; 〃for; tired of thought and
wobegone;〃 he had wandered to the window; to indulge the captive's
miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is
excluded。 The window looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the
foot of the tower。 It was a quiet; sheltered spot; adorned with arbors
and green alleys; and protected from the passing gaze by trees and
hawthorn hedges。
Now was there made; fast by the tower's wall;
A garden faire; and in the corners set
An arbour green with wandis long and small
Railed about; and so with leaves beset
Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet;
That lyf* was none; walkyng there forbye
That might within scarce any wight espye。
So thick the branches and the leves grene;
Beshaded all the alleys that there were;
And midst of every arbour might be sene
The sharpe; grene; swete juniper;
Growing so fair; with branches here and there;
That as it seemed to a lyf without;
The boughs did spread the arbour all about。
And on the small grene twistis*(2) set
The lytel swete nightingales; and sung
So loud and clear; the hymnis consecrate
Of lovis use; now soft; now loud among;
That all the garden and the wallis rung
Right of their song…
* Lyf; Person。
*(2) Twistis; small boughs or twigs。
Note。… The language of the quotations is generally modernized。
It was the month of May; when every thing was in bloom; and he
interprets the song of the nightingale into the language of his
enamored feeling:
Worship; all ye that lovers be; this May;
For of your bliss the kalends are begun;
And sing with us; away; winter; away;
Come; summer; come; the sweet season and sun。
As he gazes on the scene; and listens to the notes of the birds;
he gradually relapses into one of those tender and undefinable
reveries; which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season。 He
wonders what this love may be; of which he has so often read; and
which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May; and
melting all nature into ecstasy and song。 If it really be so great a
felicity; and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most
insignificant beings; why is he alone cut off from its enjoyments?
Oft would I think; O Lord; what may this be;
That love is of such noble myght and kynde?
Loving his folke; and such prosperitee
Is it of him; as we in books do find:
May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd:
Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye?
Or is all this but feynit fantasye?
For giff he be of so grete excellence;
That he of every wight hath care and charge;
What have I gilt*(2) to him; or done offense;
That I am thral'd; and birdis go at large?
* Setten; incline。
*(2) Gilt; what injury have I done; etc。
In the midst of his musing; as he casts his eye downward; he beholds
〃the fairest and the freshest young flou