They often murmur to themselves, they speak Broods maddening inwardly and scorns to wreak To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamour, The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, Or which some moments' stupor but increases, This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane. They leave all hope behind who enter there : The certitude of Death, which no reprieve XVII. How the moon triumphs through the endless nights! How the stars throb and glitter as they wheel Their thick processions of supernal lights Around the blue vault obdurate as steel And men regard with passionate awe and yearning The mighty marching and the golden burning, And think the heavens respond to what they feel. Boats gliding like dark shadows of a dream, The quivering moonbridge on the deep black stream; To restless crystals; cornice, dome, and column Like faëry lakes gleam lawns of dewy grass. With such a living light these dead eyes shine, Or cold majestic scorn in their pure rays: If we could near them with the flight unflown, Enringed by planet worlds as much amiss : The empyrean is a void abyss. XXI. Anear the centre of that northern crest Stands out a level upland bleak and bare, Low-seated she leans forward massively, With cheek on clenched left hand, the forearm's might Erect, its elbow on her rounded knee; Across a clasped book in her lap the right 1 The description refers to Albert Dürer's 'Melencolia.' Words cannot picture her; but all men know With phantasies of his peculiar thought: Scales, hour-glass, bell, and magic-square above Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride; And with those wings, and that light wreath which seems As if a shell of burnished metal frigid, The feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down; The comet hanging o'er the waste dark seas, Thus has the artist copied her, and thus Fronting the dreadful mysteries of Time, Baffled and beaten back she works on still, The hands shall fashion and the brain shall pore, But as if blacker night could dawn on night, Dawns glooming in her tenebrous regard: The sense that every struggle brings defeat Because they have no secret to express; That none can pierce the vast black veil uncertain Titanic from her high throne in the north, In bronze sublimity she gazes forth Over her Capital of teen and threne, Over the river with its isles and bridges, The marsh and moorland, to the stern rock-ridges, The moving moon and stars from east to west Shadows and gleams glide round her solemn rest. ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. [ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGHNESSY was born on the 14th of March, 1844. He was an ichthyologist by profession, and his entire life, from boyhood to the day of his death, was passed in the service of the British Museum. He died, after a very short illness, from the effects of a neglected cold, on the 30th of January, 1881. He published during his lifetime three volumes of verse, An Epic of Women, 1870; Lays of France, 1872; Music and Moonlight, 1874. His posthumous volume, Songs of a Worker, appeared in 1881.] The same month that saw O'Shaughnessy's death deprived English literature of one of its most vigorous representatives, a woman who had no less ambition than he had to excel in verse. In the chorus of praise and regret which followed George Eliot to the grave, O'Shaughnessy passed away almost unperceived. As far as intellect is concerned he had no claim to be mentioned near her. But in poetry the battle is not always to the strong, and he seems to have possessed, what we all confess that she lacked, the indescribable quality which gives the smallest warbler admission to that forked hill from which Bacon and Hobbes are excluded. In O'Shaughnessy this quality was thin, and soon exhausted. His earliest book had most of it; his posthumous book, which ought never to have been published, had none of it. It was volatile, and evaporated with the passage of youth. But when his work has been thoroughly sifted, there will be found to remain a small residuum of exquisite poetry, full of odour and melody, all in one key, and essentially unlike the verse of anyone else. I have ventured to indicate as the central feature of this poetry its habit of etherealising human feeling, and of looking upon mundane emotion as the broken echo of a subtle and supernatural passion. This is what seems to make O'Shaughnessy's best pieces, such as The Fountain of Tears, Barcarolle, There is an Earthly Glimmer in the Tomb, Song of Betrothal, Outcry, and even, as the reverse of the medal, the were-wolf ballad of Bisclaveret, so delicate and unique. We have nothing else quite like them in English; the Germans had a kindred product in the songs of Novalis. EDMUND W. Gosse. |