_The Culprit Fay, and other Poems_; by Joseph Rodman Drake. New York:
George Dearborn, Publisher. 1835.
Over the grave of a highly-gifted and a youthful poet, gathers many a
delightful and yet saddened reminiscence. It should ever be regarded
as a consecrated spot--crowded with associations of no ordinary
character--hallowed by the deepest and the tenderest of feelings. It is
_holy_ ground,--better fitted, it may be, than any other to allure us
to reflection,--to summon into active exercise each deep emotion of the
heart,--to draw out into living forms of beauty each hidden power, each
finer sensibility,--and to leave us, better, purer, nobler, for its
warnings and instructions. And yet, why should it be so? The grave even
of the young, the gifted, and the beautiful, differs not in outward
fashion or adornment, from the many which surround it. It is hollowed
out from the same earth with them--closes over the same lifeless and
decaying bodies--furnishes the same victim for the worm, the same
banquet for corruption. The sculptured stone that marks it, is as soon
to sink or crumble as another--the grass grows over it no greener--the
steps of the idle and the thoughtless fall not round it with a lighter
tread--and the flower that blooms upon it, is as soon to fade or wither.
The grave of a youthful poet is indeed a holy spot, but it is so not
alone in reference to the moldering body it enshrouds, or to the
impressive comment that it reads on death. That grave is sacred, rather
as a remembrancer of intellect. That body was the outward vesture of a
mind. It was the drapery that imprisoned in its folds a restless and
a struggling spirit, burning with the fires of heaven, yet amid the
gloom of earth, and was thrown aside when tarnished, as unfitted for
its purpose. In the departure of that spirit, who can tell our loss.
How brilliant, yet how rapid, has been its career. Meteor-like, it has
vanished from our sight, while the hopes that we had cherished have
gone down for ever.
The volume, whose title we have placed at the commencement of this
article, and whose merits we propose to examine with our readers, is
a beautiful memorial of departed genius. The perusal of its pages has
naturally led us to indulge in those reflections we have hitherto
pursued. The memory of Drake--his early and untimely grave--has tended
to associate with his, the same sad fate of others. We have thought of
Sands, of Wilcox, and of Brainerd. Of the former, it is true, we know
but little--nothing more than a few casual examinations of their works
afford us. Of the latter, we know more. We delight to speak of him,
not only as a poet--and as such he had few equals--but still farther,
as a friend. In the first of these characters he has now been long
before the public, and has gained from their decisions a conspicuous
distinction--a rank higher we believe than his own expectations,
although one of strictest justice and commensurate with merit. To us it
is a matter of no slight regret, that a mind so richly-gifted, should
have garnered up its beauties, and have been so very sparing of its
splendid treasures. Brainerd was distrustful of his own abilities.
The hope of approbation, was with him no motive to exertion. He
cared not to lay bare the workings of a heart, perhaps too warm and
sensitive, or to send abroad those finer feelings which might meet
no kindred sympathies, and return to him companionless from contact
with the world. It was only in those moments given up to the full flow
of friendship--to the interchange of sentiments with more intimate
associates--that the noblest of his qualities became developed. As a
poet, he reminds us forcibly of Burns. His was the same appreciation of
the charms of nature--the same exquisitely tempered sensibility--a like
generosity of disposition, and as much of poignant wit and versatility.
The tribute paid to the memory of Burns, may with equal justice be
applied to Brainerd.
“His is that language of the heart,
In which the answering heart would speak--
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light the cheek.
And his that music to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle’s mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.”
When an edition of Drake’s poems, containing many pages hitherto
unpublished, was announced as nearly ready for the press, we received
the information with great pleasure. We expected much, and we are glad
to say our expectations have been realized. The first thing which
arrested our attention was the dedication, and it struck us at the time
as unusually appropriate. It is a happy testimonial of respect, from a
daughter to her father’s friend--to one who, perhaps, above all others,
best deserved the appellation. To whom should it have been dedicated,
if not to Halleck? To the community at large the loss of such a man
as Drake may be regarded as a great calamity,--but to the cause of
literature it is still more. It is taking from the latter one of its
highest ornaments, and leaving a wide vacancy, which time may never
fill. Of his general merits, as a writer, there can be but one opinion.
The precise rank to which he is entitled we propose not to examine, or
to venture on comparisons with critical minuteness. The exact extent of
his abilities, or the results to which his genius might have led him,
we would leave as questions to be settled by the taste of his admirers,
and proceed to mention some of those peculiar features which stand
out in his productions. In our view, his poems are distinguished for
uncommon ease of diction, and the richness of their imagery. Over the
wide realm of imagination our author seems to hold unlimited control,
and to gather from it beauties, which he scatters with profusion. In
whatever spot his fancy may detain him he is found at home, lingering
around each scene with the familiarity of long acquaintance, and a
perfect knowledge of each object and allurement. He is ever changing,
too, in the visions he presents us. Now, he is hovering over an ideal
land, sweeping forward with a wing, which, like that of the untiring
Huma, is not folded upon earth. Now, he leads us forth to gaze upon
the witcheries of nature,--to view the gorgeous colorings of her
varied landscapes,--to break the silence of her forest solitudes,--to
tread the mountain height, or to repose beside the streamlet that runs
whimpering at its base. Again, he summons up our energies for a still
bolder flight--carries us away to the bright fields of upper regions,
onward and still onward, till our world is lost in distance, and we
walk upon the star-lit plains of heaven. Anon,
“Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,
Or sea-roc rides the blast,”
he plunges with us far within the bosom of the heaving deep, where
the wrath of the storm spirit is unheard--down to the coral towers of
“snail-plated” warriors, or around the amber beds of ocean sylphs and
mermaids.
But exuberance of fancy, though perhaps the most prominent, is not the
only quality inherent in these poems. We have before alluded to the
beauty of their rhythm. This we regard as almost faultless. There is a
fitness in the choice of each word, and a care in its location, which
imparts to every sentence a high finish and proportion. Each line seems
flowing onward, with a light and rapid motion, as it were to blend in
union with a graceful whole. There are no rough corners that can meet
us at the turn of each expression. The eye reposes upon nothing but a
surface of unbroken symmetry, and the ear drinks in a music grateful
as the murmurs of some meadow stream. We may deny it, if we choose,
but there is a “charm in numbers,” and the one who holds it lightly
is deficient in his judgment. The profoundest argument that man can
frame, or the proudest monument of pure mind that he can offer, derives
much of its impressive force from the garb in which it is presented.
Unadorned it is the naked statue, modelled thus far by the youthful
pupil, and that needs a master’s polish to display it in perfection.
The materials for this statue, abstract intellect may, indeed must
furnish, but it yet demands the touches of a cultivated taste. That
education which has taught us how to reason has done well, but a
different knowledge should be added ere we reap its full advantage. He
who has cast loose from the firm rock of thought, that his bark may
toss on summer seas to fancied shores of pleasure, has exposed himself
to shipwreck--but as sad may be the fate of him, who, relying solely on
the native strength of his entrenchment, has erected there no battery
to render it impregnable. It would be a source of satisfaction, did our
time allow the privilege, to trace still farther the idea which we have
started, and to make its application to a multitude of cases, but we
leave it, with reluctance, to complete our undertaking.
As specimens of graceful diction, and an almost boundless play of
fancy, there are many of Drake’s pieces which remind us of the
brilliant compositions of another poet--one whose harp has breathed
forth strains than which there are none sweeter, and whose life has
been one revel around sentiment and song. Who of us can say, whether
the young poet of America might not have been to her what Moore is now
to Ireland--that he would have loved her with less fervor of devotion,
or have sounded forth her praises with a feebler lyre. His would have
been a soul to dwell upon her charms with rapture, who when pleading
for his parent soil exclaims,
“Shame! that while every mountain, stream and plain
Hath theme for truth’s proud voice or fancy’s wand,
No _native_ bard the patriot harp hath ta’en,
But left to minstrels of a foreign strand,
To sing the beauteous scenes of nature’s loveliest land.”
From the numerous pieces which compose the volume, we select the
CULPRIT FAY, as best adapted to exhibit the true merits of our
author. It is, to say the least, an elegant production--the purest
specimen of ideality that we have ever met with, sustaining in each
incident a most bewitching interest. Its very title is enough to
kindle the imagination, and to send us wandering amid the bowers of
elfin land, reviewing the traditions of our boyhood years. We recall
to recollection many of those “old world stories,”--tales of brownies
and the bogle burns of Scotland,--of the elves and sprites of merry
England, or the mystic Wasser Nixen of the German fable. We trust
ourselves with pleasure to that guidance which once more will introduce
us to this region of enchantment.
The poem opens with an elegant description of the spot our author has
selected for his “spell-bound realm.” It lies beside the waters of the
lordly Hudson--a river whose whole shore is rich in scenes of beauty,
and many of whose deep receding bays and jutting headlands have derived
a lasting interest from the pen of Irving. The time is midnight--we
stand upon the summit of Cronest, gazing upon a cloudless sky--every
thing around us is now lulled to sweet repose--
“The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
And naught is heard on the lonely hill,
But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katy-did.”
Suddenly the voice of the sentry-elf, awakened from his slumbers, (how
he came to be asleep our author does not tell us,) breaks in upon the
stillness, as he hastens to announce the dawning of the fairy day--and
crowds of tiny Fays fly answering to his summons.
“They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly
From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,
And rocked about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest--
They had driven him out by elfin power,
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,
With glittering ising-stars inlaid;
And some had opened the four-o’-clock,
And stole within its purple shade.
And now they throng the moonlight glade,
Above--below--on every side,
Their little minim forms arrayed
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!”
It is not, however, to the dance or revel that we are invited. No wild
gambol is to rivet our attention. We are summoned to the trial of an
erring ouphe. Before us stands the throne of judgment, supported on
its pillars of the “mottled tortoise shell,” and covered by a curtain
of the “tulip’s crimson drapery.” Upon it sits the fairy monarch,
surrounded by the nobles of his realm--before him is the culprit Fay.
Weighty is the crime alledged against the prisoner. Unmindful of his
vestal vow, he has dared to love an earthly maiden. He has
--“left for her his woodland shade;
He has lain upon her lip of dew,
And sunned him in her eye of blue,
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,
Played with the ringlets of her hair,
And, nestling on her snowy breast,
Forgot the lily-king’s behest.”
His condemnation follows. The loveliness and purity of her for whom
he had thus sinned, go far to mitigate the punishment to which he
is obnoxious--a punishment than which none could be severer or more
terrible. His sentence is pronounced.
“Thou shalt seek the beach of sand,
Where the water bounds the elfin-land,
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,
Then dart the glistening arch below,
And catch a drop from his silver bow.
The water-sprites will wield their arms,
And dash around, with roar and rave,
And vain are the woodland spirits’ charms,
They are the imps that rule the wave.
Yet trust thee in thy single might,
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,
Thou shalt win the warlock fight.”
With this explanation of the nature of his penance, we leave the
sentenced Fay to enter on his toilsome journey and meet us in its
progress at a different quarter.
We have heard often of the circumstances which led to the production
of this poem, and of the astonishing rapidity with which it was
composed. How this may be we know not. Judging from the beauty of its
several parts, and still more from its finish as a whole, it strikes
us as the result of long continued labor, polished and perfected with
a scrupulous attention. The subject which our author has selected,
is one admirably fitted to display his genius. It is one, however,
that demands unceasing effort, and requires the constant workings of
his brilliant fancy. From the ordinary range of illustration he is
certainly excluded, while the path to the attainment of his object is
both difficult and devious. He has drawn around himself a magic circle,
into which no human form can enter. Nothing earthly is to mingle in the
scenes to which he calls us. Each action, in its origin, continuance,
and termination, must be fitted to the beings he has chosen for his
actors. With this view of his undertaking, we may fear for the result,
and watch with much anxiety its full accomplishment. It is not long,
however, that we feel this apprehension. We soon discover that our
author is prepared for each adventure--that he gains a ready conquest
over every opposition, while his flight continues onward with an
undiminished ardor.
Here again we are to greet our pilgrim fairy. Long and wearisome have
been his wanderings. Hour after hour has he toiled amid the passes of
the mountain, and fearful are the perils he has been compelled to meet.
He has followed out a dangerous track,
“Through dreary beds of tangled fern,
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,
Over the grass and through the brake,
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake,”
till he has reached the spot appointed for the trial of his courage. He
has found the treasure that he sought, protected by the warriors of the
deep, and been baffled by their forces in the efforts he has made.
It is in this crisis of affairs that we meet with a deliverance as
ingenious as it is successful. It is necessary, for our author’s
purpose, that his hero, though thus far defeated, should yet gain his
object, and with that intention he has brought him to his present
situation. The events which we have compressed into the narrow space of
a few lines, have been presented in detail up to the period in which
the Fay, driven from his purpose, stood despairing on the river’s
brink. It is thus the history continues,--
“He cast a saddened look around,
But he felt new joy his bosom swell,
When, glittering on the shadowed ground,
He saw a purple muscle shell;
Thither he ran, and he bent him low,
He heaved at the stern, and he heaved at the bow,
And he pushed her over the yielding sand,
Till he came to the verge of the haunted land.
She was as lovely a pleasure boat
As ever fairy had paddled in,
For she glowed with purple paint without,
And shone with silvery pearl within;
A sculler’s notch in the stem he made,
An oar he shaped of the bootle blade;
Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap,
And launched afar on the calm blue deep.”
Guarded in this manner from the machinations of his enemies, whose
power was bounded by the wave, our adventurer holds on his course
uninjured, and effects his purpose. His return, surrounded by a crowd
of ocean nymphs, is beautifully represented. We refer our readers to
the volume for the passage.
Here the scene of this poem changes, and we find our Fay is still
destined to another duty--one far more difficult than any he has yet
accomplished. The remainder of his sentence now demands attention.
“Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
Thou must re-illume its spark.
Mount thy steed and spur him high
To the heaven’s blue canopy;
And when thou seest a shooting star,
Follow it fast, and follow it far--
The last faint spark of its burning train
Shall light the elfin lamp again.
Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;
Hence! to the water-side, away!”
To the execution of this last injunction all his powers are now
directed, and we find him thus equipped for this most daring enterprise.
“He put his acorn helmet on;
It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down:
The corslet plate that guarded his breast
Was once the wild bee’s golden vest;
His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,
Was formed of the wings of butterflies;
His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,
Studs of gold on a ground of green;
And the quivering lance which he brandished bright,
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed;
He bared his blade of the bent grass blue;
He drove his spurs of the cockle seed,
And away like a glance of thought he flew,
To skim the heavens and follow far
The fiery trail of the rocket-star.”
From the passage above quoted to the close of the poem, is extended a
long series of most exquisite description. Each instant of our flight,
unfolds to our enraptured vision scenes ever changing, and increasing
in their splendor. Already have we hurried by the misty region of the
cloud.
“The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,
The sphered moon is past,
The earth but seems a tiny blot
On a sheet of azure cast.”