The moon ascends the vaulted sky to-night;
With a slow motion full of pomp ascends,
But, mightier than the Moon that o’er it bends,
A form is dwelling on the mountain height
That boldly intercepts the struggling light
With darkness nobler than the planet’s fire,—
A gloom and dreadful grandeur that aspire
To match the cheerful Heaven’s far-shining might.
If we were to shut our eyes to the repetition of “might,” (which, in its
various inflections, is a pet word with our author, and lugged in upon
all occasions) and to the obvious imitation of Longfellow’s Hymn to the
Night in the second line of this stanza, we should be justified in
calling it _good_. The “darkness nobler than the planet’s fire” is
_certainly_ good. The general conception of the colossal figure on the
mountain summit, relieved against the full moon, would be unquestionably
_grand_ were it not for the _bullish_ phraseology by which the
conception is rendered, in a great measure, abortive. The moon is
described as “ascending,” and its “motion” is referred to, while we have
the standing figure continuously intercepting its light. That the orb
would soon pass from behind the figure, is a physical fact which the
purpose of the poet required to be left out of sight, and which scarcely
any other language than that which he has actually employed would have
succeeded in forcing upon the reader’s attention. With all these
defects, however, the passage, especially as an opening passage, is one
of high merit.
Looking carefully for something else to be commended we find at length
the lines—
Lo! where our foe up through these vales ascends,
Fresh from the embraces of the swelling sea,
A glorious, white and shining Deity.
Upon our strength his deep blue eye he bends,
With threatenings full of thought and steadfast ends;
_While desolation from his nostril breathes_
_His glittering rage he scornfully unsheathes_
_And to the startled air its splendor lends._
This again, however, is worth only qualified commendation. The first six
lines preserve the personification (that of a ship) sufficiently well;
but, in the seventh and eighth, the author suffers the image to slide
into that of a warrior unsheathing his sword. Still there is _force_ in
these concluding verses, and we begin to fancy that this is saying a
very great deal for the author of “Puffer Hopkins.”
The best stanza in the poem (there are thirty-four in all) is the
thirty-third.
No cloud was on the moon, yet on His brow
A deepening shadow fell, and on his knees
_That shook like tempest-stricken mountain trees_
_His heavy head descended sad and low_
_Like a high city smitten by the blow_
_Which secret earthquakes strike and topling falls_
_With all its arches, towers, and cathedrals_
_In swift and unconjectured overthrow._
This is, positively, not bad. The first line italicized is bold and
vigorous, both in thought and expression; and the four last (although by
no means original) convey a striking picture. But then the whole idea,
in its general want of keeping, is preposterous. What is more absurd
than the conception of a man’s head descending _to his knees_, as here
described—the thing could not be done by an Indian juggler or a man of
gum-caoutchouc—and what is more inappropriate than the resemblance
attempted to be drawn between a _single_ head descending, and the
_innumerable_ pinnacles of a falling city? It is difficult to
understand, _en passant_, why Mr. Mathews has thought proper to give
“cathedrals” a quantity which does not belong to it, or to write
“unconjectured” when the rhythm might have been fulfilled by
“unexpected” and when “unexpected” would have fully conveyed the meaning
which “unconjectured” does not.
By dint of farther microscopic survey, we are enabled to point out one,
and alas, _only_ one more good line in the poem.